Nervous Breakdown, Nine Innings
by Ivydoll
Summary: AbeMiha. How love grows from jealousy and admiration, possessiveness and trust. Drabbles and short stories closely following the actual episodes. HamaIzu, SuyaSaka, HanaiTaji, ShigaMomoe.
1. Season One: Chapter 1

**(KAI)** Title is inspired by, "A baseball game is simply a nervous breakdown divided into nine innings. -Earl Wilson."  
>These drabbles cover episodes one and two. Features AbeMihashi, SuyamaSakaeguchi, and ShigaMomoe.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The First Day<strong>

He didn't understand. Not even a little. Here was this skinny, cowering mess, crying without restraint on the ground at their feet, and Abe didn't understand.

* * *

><p><strong>The First Day<strong>

Mihashi is terrified of Abe's kindness, and of his bluntness. It is at once refreshing, and at the other like a very tall ladder which much be climbed, to jump from, in order to fall into the water below. Water that would be guilt, ineptitude, and selfishness. He wanted to tell Abe, to scream at him, not to give him a chance. To walk, run, away, and not waste his time. But Abe's face is impassive, or he smiles a confident, crooked smile, and both faces scare the truth that Mihashi knows deep, deep down, where it cannot escape his mouth.

And when Abe praises him, his heart soars, but his mind shoots it down.

* * *

><p><strong>To Ohno<strong>

When Mr. Shiga asks Abe to attend to Mihashi, he senses something in his voice that he can't quite describe. A knowingness. Perhaps a smugness. There's something, some subtext that he isn't quite reading in the big man's words. But then Mr. Shiga grins and Abe thinks that he must just be feeling cross from sitting for so long.

Mihashi is leaning back, his feet wedged in the forward seat, and as they talk, and as he cries, he feels a stir of pity. It's been two weeks, and he is… used to the crying. Mihashi cries frequently, generally for short periods of time, and he wonders how anyone could be like that. But he thinks, _As long as he can hold himself together and be our ace, I can mold him. He just has to listen to me. I can learn to tolerate him, as long as he listens. _

He takes the pity and wraps it up, impatient.

* * *

><p>He knows he shouldn't have sat in the back of the bus, but he's too shy to get up and move. He doesn't want to bother the other guys, doesn't want to risk being told to move back, or to be thought of as weird. He's <em>so<em> tired, but even in the lull of the bus he cannot drift off.

Abe's voice is a terrifying and welcome distraction- until the stress and the bland look in Abe's eyes trigger the frustrated tears that have been hiding behind his eyes. Talking about his fears- not being ace, failing to change- only highlights the sad, unfortunate quirk of his personality he thinks he needs to change. He cries, softly, between his words, and for a moment, forgets that Abe is there. But he is there, and when Mihashi takes a deep breath, he sees him and nearly panics. That bland look.

He wants to say something, apologize, beg, something, but Abe has already leaned back and closed his eyes, as if going to sleep, or only thinking. Mihashi doesn't want to bother him, so he curls up tighter, leans against the cool window, and tries to smooth the hiccup out of his breath.

He wishes he could be as composed and cool as Abe.

* * *

><p><strong>To Ohno<strong>

They had been talking, of all things, about politics. Before that, a documentary they had watched together the night before- the documentary being what brought on the politics. Sakaeguchi was not necessarily adept at such talks, but Suyama was, and Yuuto liked to listen to Suyama talk. They had talked a long time last night, as well. Often, bursting with commentary, Suyama would pause the film and expound excitedly about some insight to which he'd been privy.

Yuuto, patiently, listened, occasionally learned something, and smiled.

It had been a while now, and Suyama was running out of steam. Staying over had been his idea, so that they could save on their parents' resources and go to the bus together. Despite their good intentions, they had lain in Shoji's futon for hours after the film had ended, talking and laughing, before finally falling asleep. Now, halfway to Ohno, they were both running low on energy.

Suyama fell quiet, and followed Sakaeguchi's gaze out the window. The world outside was quiet, green, and soothing. Yuuto turned to him and smiled, and his stomach turned, once, in strange nervousness. It wasn't long that he let his head back and fell asleep, gradually slipping over until his cheek rested on the head of his classmate.

Yuuto relaxed. This reminded him of last night on the futon- sharing the not so large space, and being warm and content. Their backs had been flush together when they finally went to sleep, and he couldn't think of too many things in this world nicer than that. Having Shoji fall asleep against him, though, that was close.

The scenery began to blur and fade. He was remembering something about the documentary, something about his swing, something about being a little hungry, something about the color blue, and then he was asleep, cheek on Suyama's warm shoulder.

* * *

><p><strong>Dust<strong>

When Abe defends his pitching, Mihashi feels his face flush. Has that… ever happened? Has he ever been defended? That nearly accepted feeling he had begun to experience, the first day he met Abe, when the boy had said, with excitement, "What other kinds of pitches do you have?" blossomed in him, stirred up like a dust devil.

The dust devil falls flat when he lands on his back, toppling from the wooden block, but Abe looking down on him, asking after him, that helps the dust devil not to die.

* * *

><p><strong>Head of the Table<strong>

Sometimes, when Shiga looks at her, she feels like a schoolgirl again. And he really isn't all that much older; he'll be thirty soon, only seven years older than her. And not a full seven, because she'll be turning twenty-four before too long. She thinks about these things, when they talk. As they drove to Ohno, as they prepped their young team.

She thought of such things before, when she had been approached to be their club's advisor. Maria had been startled at happy; it could have been any of the physical education teachers, or even the health teacher, but the one who wanted to resurrect baseball at Nishiura was… her favorite teacher, from when she had been a student.

She had been so excited, though at first she only partially understood why.

As the boys cleared their bowls and the table, she sat back, looked at Shiga, and pretended not to notice his bare ring finger. He smiled at her, adjusting his glasses. She grinned, blushed, and lay back. Daydreaming was all she needed for now. Daydreaming, and feeling like a schoolgirl again.


	2. Chapter 2

**(KAI)** This chapter covers episode three. Features AbeMiha and a little HanaiTaji.

* * *

><p><strong>Tears<strong>

It has been a little more than two weeks now. The night before had marked the sixteenth day of growing to know the young men on his team- including the histrionic, unintelligible Mihashi. Abe had fallen asleep taking an inventory of his team-mates, cataloguing their strengths, their weaknesses. He had paused on Mihashi. They were near to each other, and if he focused, he could hear the other boy breathing. Every fifth or sixth breath was a strange half-breath, as if he was surprised by something only he could see in the dark of their sleeping quarters.

What a strange, nervous boy, he had thought, and given him no more thought, falling soon thereafter asleep.

Here they were, now, on the cleared field in Ohno, after trading an hour's worth of pitches. Although he was breathing a little quickly, his stamina seemed good. Abe liked that; if Mihashi was their only pitcher, he needed to be able to hold out for a full game. The talk turned around to their upcoming match, and there, again, were those tears. Abe wasn't sure what to think of their pitchers continual emotional outbursts, but the pity that had tried to grasp at him the other day seeped from the box he'd shoved it in, and was now clouding around in his head, making him wonder, _What happened to this guy? Really… what has to happen to someone… to make them like this?_

A shy personality wasn't much to hate a guy over. What had that team's problem with Mihashi really been? He was an excellent pitcher, with a lot of potential. So what about favoritism? Who cares?

Momoe was walking away; he walked toward Mihashi and waited for the tears to abate. They did, Mihashi looking up at him with an expression of panic and misery. There was no reason to berate him; Abe had no idea what was going in the kid's brain. But… it must have been pretty bad.

"Hey. Let's head back with Coach. It'll be dinner time soon."

"…Y-Yeah. Dinner."

Mihashi followed him, face down, but Abe was sure he had seen some measure of relief in the other boy's eyes. _Talented_, he thought, _but strange_.

* * *

><p><strong>Sleepless<strong>

Where had he been? For those couple of seconds, though his eyes were open, Mihashi felt almost like he had fallen asleep. But then Abe had startled him back, and was interrogating him, making him so nervous. Mihashi, not for the first time, hated himself.

"It's been four days, but I don't feel like we've gotten any closer."

_I'm sorry._

"I'm worrying about you and you're lying to me."

_I'm so sorry._

He tried- tried so hard- but the tears welled up in him. They were borne on exhaustion and a kind of misery he had never before experienced. There was something about Abe- something so solid and capable. He wanted to be strong and stable and capable for his catcher, wanted to do the best he could, but was scared. Terrified. And the idea of failing Abe hurt so much more than knowing they were going against his team, that he wasn't good enough. Mihashi wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. He watched Abe walk away, back straight, and wished he weren't so scared.

* * *

><p><strong>Sleepless<strong>

He partnered with Mihashi immediately for the number calling game; he was troubled by the circles underneath the other boy's eyes and the listless expression Mihashi had affected after dinner. Attempts, though, at wrangling any clear answer from him, anything solid to go on, failed. He was frustrated- Abe had never met anyone who frustrated him quite this much.

And the crying didn't help- this time, instead of just confused and a little thunderstruck by the peculiarity of it, he also felt guilty. The guilt was a little black, ugly thing, and he didn't know how to deal with it. So, he ran.

He stood, reminded Mihashi what his expectations for the game were, and walked away, taking the little black guilt with him.

* * *

><p><strong>Cozy<strong>

The fourth night of their sleep away in Ohno, Tajima's futon ends up beside Hanai. Hanai isn't sure how he feels about this, because teeny, energetic Tajima puts him on edge. It's hard to see him do so well at things at which Azusa himself wants to be great. But he stomachs those feelings down; _What does it matter? It's stupid. I shouldn't be stupid. _

In the middle of the night, he wakes up, and Tajima, on his back, is laying halfway onto his futon, his right arm across Hanai's belly, his head by Hanai's chest. At first, he is completely tense, completely surprised. What is he supposed to do? This ridiculous, over-confidant twerp is… well, it's not cuddling… but it's… close. It's entirely too cozy.

Hanai takes a deep breath and Tajima doesn't move. Well.

Time passes and he wonders, should he move? Should he… push Tajima away?

Well. Maybe he should. There's no where to move, as tightly packed as everyone is.

Well.

Well.

All right. It doesn't mean anything. It's fine to be cozy for now. It's not as though it's his fault.

Right.

Hanai yawns, and the ceiling above warps. _I'm too tired to be worrying about this. He's my team-mate, what do I care?_

And Hanai fell back asleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Panic<strong>

Mihashi clapped his hands over his mouth. Hatake had said- his stuttering- but he was _freaked out_ and what was Hatake _doing _here?

Hatake came closer, and Mihashi knew to be afraid. He hid his face, held his body in tight. Maybe if he became small enough, maybe if he became wound tightly enough, he would shrink and disappear. It was true; why was he doing this? He shouldn't be a pitcher. He shouldn't…

"Nobody's forgiven you."

The jolt by his head- the pound of a cleat against brick, sent a jolt of panic through his body. He was- there was no way- was he… going to be hurt? Immediately, the tears came, overwhelming, shameful and hot, tears. He shook. That time. _That time _had been a year ago. Hatake had been in the clubhouse, waiting for him as everyone else trickled home. And they had been alone when Hatake had grasped his back and his elbow and shoved him down. Awful, awful pressure had filled his joints as Hatake pushed him into the floor. He was saying- what had it been?- "If your arm is broken.. If it breaks… You can't pitch. You can't be the ace. I'll take this team back- you- you just-"

But Kanou had come in then, suddenly, wonderingly, and Hatake had laughed it off, saying, "Only rough-housing, only rough-housing." And Kanou had accepted it, maybe to avoid a fight. Maybe because Mihashi wasn't worth defending. And they left, leaving Mihashi on the floor of the clubhouse, sobbing with his arm against his chest, wondering if maybe Hatake should have just broken it.

* * *

><p><strong>Panic<strong>

For a moment, panic overtook him, but he kept a straight face to avoid startling whatever scene he was about to encounter. A voice he didn't recognize, the muffled hiccups of Mihashi's familiar crying- and that stranger's voice saying, "Maybe I should have broken your arm that time."

_No way_. Not his pitcher. He came through a cluster of bushes near a building's back wall, and found another catcher hovering over Mihashi's shaking form. A strange, unfamiliar anger bubbled in his gut, but he didn't pursue the other catcher. He wanted to make sure Mihashi was okay, wanted to get all of the facts before he started something he might not want to finish with a rival team.

He knelt by the blonde, and he listened, angry that Mihashi hadn't just _defended _himself somehow. Hadn't stood his ground in some way. He was beginning to see that perhaps Mihashi wasn't capable of such a thing. Perhaps he needed someone else to do the defending. The other boy's babbling made only a _kind_ of sense, and Abe felt the peculiar anger bubble down, simmering.

"He didn't actually do it," Mihashi was saying, hands balled into little fists against his forehead. Abe wanted to put his own fist through a wall.

_He can't pitch like this. That's the first thing that has to be dealt with… and the rest…_ Abe didn't know about the rest. He was at a loss for 'the rest.' Better to stick to familiar territory and get Mihashi's troubled mind back onto baseball. Momoe was in his mind then, her voice low and encouraging. He reached out.

* * *

><p>It <em>hurt. <em>It hurt to be told he was a good pitcher by someone as level and admirable as Abe. Mihashi cried harder, hiccupping, trying to escape from the warm grip on his useless pitching hand. Useless, useless, useless.

* * *

><p>Abe's face was hot with embarrassment; Mihashi's wailing was pathetic and infuriating; and worse, there was something in it that made Abe… hurt? Some kind of little pain. It was probably frustration. Mihashi's hand was so cold- but-<p>

So beautifully calloused. Sliders… Screwballs… _Wow_._ How many times did he throw…?_

Mihashi's cold hand.

_He's worked so hard._

Mihashi's tears.

_He's not stubborn… he just doesn't have any self-confidence. _

Mihashi's words- his insistence that he was no good. That he didn't deserve to be a pitcher.

_Those guys from middle school robbed him…_

Soft sobs.

_They didn't even try to understand him…!_

Abe's hand began to shake.

* * *

><p>Abe hadn't let go. Abe hadn't walked away. He was still here, and he was… shaking. Mihashi looked up, bleary-eyed and miserable and was shocked to see Abe's dark eyes, averted, filled with tears.<p>

"You're a good pitcher," he said softly, wiping the damp evidence away. Something strange happened in Mihashi's heart- it flipped or shuddered or twitched- and he felt an awe sweep through him. "I like you. Not just as a pitcher. I like you as a person- you've worked so hard!"

Abe's voice took on a loudness, an intensity that made Mihashi at once want to shrink away and at the other want to get closer. It was almost as if Abe's thoughts, _I want to help him, I want to do something __for him, _had made their way into his body, into the parts that needed warming.

Mihashi swallowed. "You… you think I'm working hard?"

"I do." Firm. Supportive. Alien.

"…I like… being a pitcher."

"I can tell," Abe hadn't let go. His hand was _so _warm.

The blonde's face was flushed, a fluttery, foreign feeling of happiness filling him, "Really? Abe, you can tell?"

What a funny guy. Abe smiled, a small, easy smile. "Yes, I can."

"I… and I… want to win!" _Was that okay? As long as it was okay with Abe… Everything could be okay. _

"We can!" Abe barked, hand, for one moment, tightening.

_Abe isn't disgusted by me… he's really… acknowledging me… I want him to… I feel… _"I like you, too!"

"Th-Thank you." Abe replied, embarrassed. He stood, pulling Mihashi up by his warmed hand. It was time to get back down to business- back to baseball and their first win. Abe thought, for the first time, that Mihashi wasn't so complicated. That he wasn't so bad. And that he hadn't lied. He did like him as a person. Even if he was frustrating and weird.

He didn't realize that it he took over forty steps before he finally let go of Mihashi's hand.

* * *

><p><strong>Hiding<strong>

It was a funny thing; not entirely planned. But he felt accomplished while he tied the braces of Abe's shin guards. He felt invisible behind Abe, safe.

"You can't hide behind me."

Mihashi huddled closer, feeling warmth radiating from Abe's legs. He peered at the field, at his ex-team-mates, and the feeling of accomplishment faded. At least he had been helpful to Abe.

"There's nowhere to hide once you're on the mound."

_Right. _Mihashi shivered. _That's right._


	3. Chapter 3

**(KAI) **This chapter covers episodes 05 and 06. It's all AbeMiha.

* * *

><p><strong>Jealousy<strong>

"What are you doing?" Abe peered down at Mihashi. "Are you all right?"

Mihashi righted himself, a tumble of nervousness and dust. The catcher watched him for a moment more and then glanced, surreptitious, to the Mihoshi team. _It's clear that he wants to rejoin them. Even if they abused him… it was his home. So what this means for Nishiura is…_

Mihashi hadn't stood, he had followed Abe's gaze and his pale face had taken on that earnest, faraway expression that Abe had not been able to penetrate. A hot, mean feeling swept once through the catcher's body. Mihashi looked back up at him, and he reached out.

"I… just fell 'cause… something's sticking out here," Mihashi giggled nervously, not making eye contact. Abe's grip was tight… he let go. The pitcher dusted himself off, still giggling, still nervous. Still faraway. Somehow unreachable.

Abe wanted suddenly to connect to the blonde, the idea of losing him to the Gunma team like a rancid thing in his gut, and that was when he realized that he was full, brimming full, of jealousy. He knew somehow that if Mihashi returned to his former team, that would be good for him. A healing thing. But, selfishly, he wanted his move to Nishiura to _mean_ something. To be a gamble with a payoff- and Mihashi would be _some_ payoff.

_I've found such a tremendous pitcher here. I definitely don't want to lose him. _

And the jealousy simmered, _And… in order to win… Mihashi's better off with me, too!  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Hidden Thing<strong>

_Take care of Mihashi. _

Momoe's words zinged into his brain, hovered, then sank deep. Abe approached home plate; he knew Mihashi was necessary for Nishiura, but… for one moment… one strange moment, there was a peculiar sensation attached to his body. It was the jealousy and it was something else, something sneaky and hidden that Abe did not notice. He thought, _I'll make him acknowledge me in this game. _

And the feeling faded off, not caught. Not gone.

_I'll make him choose me over his ex-teammates!_

Not gone at all.

* * *

><p><strong>Hidden Thing<strong>

For the first time, Mihashi really understood the message that Abe was telegraphing him with his face and his body and his actions. It was in way he called his name. The way he pulled back, pitched the ball right into his glove. His eyes were unwavering, dark. Intensity was rolling off of him, toward Mihashi. Only Mihashi.

The pitcher swallowed, feeling the weight of that message.

_Your catcher is me. _

Mihashi could remember the way Abe held his hand, warming it. How he had encouraged him, defended him. He gripped the ball, feeling resolved. _I want to do the best I can. I'll pitch my hardest, Abe. My very hardest!  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Helpful<strong>

Mihashi is there with Abe's chest guard at the end of their offense; the padding thick in his hands. He thinks it's because of the way Abe helped him- warmed him and encouraged him- and saved him from Hatake; maybe it is, and maybe it isn't, but now he wants, desperately somehow, to be helpful. There's something rewarding about being the one to help Abe get into gear, and though it is clumsy, he attempts to make conversation.

Mihashi wonders if this is what it is like to have friends. It's been so long- years since when he was a child playing baseball with his first glove- that he had anyone to call a friend, and he thinks that maybe… just maybe… Abe might really be one to him.

When Coach had said, "Everyone, do you want, Mihashi?" Abe had said, "I do!" and his hand had gripped Mihashi's shoulder. The fabric of his jersey had crumpled, pulled, and he felt suddenly, closer to Abe and his team-mates, shouting a chorus around him.

A sly part of him wants to say "do you want an ace?" is a lot different than "do you want Mihashi?" but he doesn't understand why- except maybe he's starting to get used to the idea that perhaps someone can just _like_ him. Be his friend.

He tries to sound hopeful about the game, thinking that there's a chance that it's the kind of thing Abe might want to hear; Abe always has something cool and level-headed to say. Something that makes Mihashi tense and surprised, and a little guilty. His face is flushed.

A small part of him _is_ cheering for Mihoshi, and he knows, sadly, that such a thing is _not_ helpful to Abe. Not good. Not good at all. Maybe… does Abe want still to be his friend?

His words trail off. At least he tried.

But…

_I left Mihoshi. Because… I… well, I… I'm their opponent now. _

Abe is there again, dropping Mihashi's mitt onto his head and giving him a firm push toward the mound. Mihashi stumbles, but is strangely happy for the contact. He wants, again, only to be helpful. And so, he pitches, heart beating fast when he meets Abe's steady, serious gaze; just a little bit confident, just a little bit happy, to- maybe- have a friend.

* * *

><p><strong>Failure<strong>

No no-hit… No shut-out… Abe can feel a swell of anger and strange fear tugging at his insides. It's no good. How can he… Mihashi… They just needed to win… Maybe they still can, but-

And he can sense Mihashi fretting behind him. Twitching and making almost-noises. As if he wants to say something, but won't. The irritation grows, and so does the fear. It hadn't quite occurred to him that he _could _lose Mihashi.

But maybe he would.

* * *

><p><strong>Failure<strong>

Mihashi wants to apologize, but he isn't sure how. He can't seem to make his voice pass by his throat, and the air he takes in keeps getting caught, spun around, and exhaled without meaning anything. He failed Abe. He really was… a terrible pitcher. Abe wouldn't want him anymore, would he? He'd really screwed up.

Maybe they'll still win, but maybe they'll lose… then what? What will happen to him then?

It hurts to know that his goal- to win, to be a good pitcher for Abe and the team- _to please Abe- _has at least partially failed. He knows that Abe is mad, just _knows. _

Mihashi takes a deep breath. For now, he still has other batters to pitch against, still has chances to receive Abe's signs. As long as Abe keeps giving him signs, he'll accept the limits of his pitching. And maybe there's still a chance…

Maybe, maybe.


	4. Chapter 4

**(KAI)** This chapter covers episode 07. Mostly AbeMiha, with a little SuyamaSakaeguchi.

* * *

><p><strong>Shaken<strong>

He looks… small. Very small. Abe realized with a pang of guilt that the brunt of those hits was not being felt by him. Yes, he was shaken. Shocked, a little angry- especially with himself. But when he stopped to think about it- when he saw Mihashi wander past the dug-out and curl into a ball on the ground- he better understood how Mihashi must be feeling. Perhaps, as it had been on his last team, Mihashi was expecting to be berated; knowing him, he surely felt responsible and guilty.

Abe swallowed. _But… not necessarily is it your fault. It's really not…_

The catcher went straight over, and was a little dismayed when he saw Mihashi twitch and shrink away. It was fear, wasn't it? He would bet money that tears were either forming or falling from Mihashi's eyes…

He apologized, wanting to make it right. Wanting to keep Mihashi on an even keel, and also wanting… wanting to…? Something, some feeling of responsibility for the pitcher's well-being.

He apologized, then complimented Mihashi, and then… curiously… wanted to see Mihashi's face. His eyes, in particular.

Abe had been right. Mihashi's brown eyes were tearful, wet and sad and shaken. Mihashi's questioning look and queries put him on edge, and before long he's shouting, admitting his hubris. It's a long time before Mihashi says anything, and the entire time, Abe can hear his heart beating, pounding, leaping. Coach's call is a welcome distraction, and he retreats.

* * *

><p><strong>Shaken<strong>

Standing over him, Abe looks so tall. And his chest and shin guards make him look bigger, too. His serious face… his confident statements. Mihashi is confused, shaken, and feels unutterably out of sorts. The only thing he knows for certain, is that he doesn't think he will _ever_ forget how Abe looked, standing over him, looking so strong.

* * *

><p><strong>Jealous<strong>

When Oki is struck by one of Kanou's wayward pitches, Sakaeguchi watches Suyama begin to jog from the dugout, calling out and preparing to be he helpful. If Oki had needed it, Suyama would have helped him up- given him his arm, and then, his other arm would have gone around Oki's waist, right?- and Suyama would have helped Oki to the dugout. But Oki is fine. He waves Suyama off and takes the walk, and Sakaeguchi is surprised with himself for the wave of intense, ridiculous jealousy. He shakes his head, laughs a little, but is very, _very _glad that Oki is just fine.

* * *

><p><strong>Learning Curve <strong>

Mihashi is still curled up by the fence when Tajima returns to the dugout, so he proceeds with a plan he'd thought up while watching Abe speak to their pitcher earlier. He felt bad for Abe; it was obvious that he was trying to get through to Mihashi, trying to figure him out, but he just wasn't quick enough on the uptake. He just didn't quite know what to say, when, or how. It was pretty clear to Tajima, so he wasn't certain what Mister-I-Have-Everything-Memorized, I'm-A-Genius Abe's problem was.

He stood over Mihashi, being matter-of-fact and clear, and a little gentle, and looking down into scared brown eyes, he guessed that maybe it was a little understandable that Abe got throughly out of sorts when trying to deal with Mihashi. Yeah. Definitely.

* * *

><p><strong>Miscommunication<strong>

After Tajima forces him into the dugout, and the Nishiura boys crowd him with small kindnesses, he develops a tiny, flickering bit of courage, and he uses it to confront Abe. Technically, it is the absolute last thing he wants to do, but he knows he must be truthful with his catcher. After everything Abe has done for him, it's imperative that Mihashi does his best to be honest.

He stutters, stumbles, and his heart pounds hard against his rib-cage. Abe's face is a mask of doubt- and Mihashi is certain that his catcher is furious with him. "I know… I shouldn't shake my head at your signs… but…"

That dark look. Sweat seemed to spring to his Mihashi's skin with renewed energy.

"Well?" Abe took a step forward, and his voice was terrifying in its challenge. Mihashi blanched, but took a quick breath. "So- so I won't shake! I- I won't!

"But that clean-up hitter… I thought he would hit it!" Mihashi hears his catcher's sharp intake of breath, but barrels on, eyes shut against any awful look he might be receiving. "I'm not certain, but, but- It's just that- he- he- swung- and his eyes… were shut. It seemed weird."

Mihashi exhaled, panted, thought, _I did it! I said it! _But the relief was short-lived. Abe's challenging look had been replaced with one of some kind of… astoundedness. _Oh, no, Abe's mad…! I'm not going to oppose you, please don't be mad-_

Abe scowled and shouted, "Why didn't you say anything, you dolt?" and Mihashi shrunk back, tears leaping to his eyes. He's screwed up, after all. His little courage sputtered out and with it went his legs. He stumbled to the ground, breathing hard, and wondered why his heart was beating _so _fast_. _

And why didn't it slow down when Abe's tone changed?

* * *

><p><strong>So Choose Me<strong>

When they called to him, Mihashi tried to run. _What are they going to say? I can't take it if they… if they say something bad. I don't want to get upset in front of everybody after winning, they might… they might be mad at me, too…!_

But Abe's strong hand caught him and pushed him back, forcing him to be brave. Mihashi didn't _want _ to be brave. He looked desperately around, avoiding eye contact with his former team. _Wasn't there anywhere to hide?_

He felt like he _might _cry; his breath came out in ragged hics and it was only Abe's warm hands on his shoulders that kept him there, facing his ex-teammates. He tried to take a deep breath; maybe, with Abe there, he _could _ be brave.

And then Hatake was apologizing to him, and it didn't matter _how _brave he did or did not feel, because his world had been turned upside down. They… wanted him to come back. They wanted him to choose them over Nishiura.

But… he wouldn't. And then _he _was apologizing. To Kanou, for taking away his middle school experience and running away without saying he was sorry for it. And he was _so, so_ sorry. "I just… wanted us to play baseball together."

Kanou's voice was sour, "But aren't you lonely all by yourself?"

Tears. Why did they come now? Why… at that?

He turned and glanced at his team-mates. Izumi and Tajima were smiling, confident. Oki and Nishihiro looked unsure, hopeful. And Abe… looked… unexpectedly kind, softer, and a little expectant. He wasn't alone. Not at all. "I'm not lonely," he said, softly, a small joy bright in his eyes. He was happy with his choice.

* * *

><p><strong>So Choose Me<strong>

_Tell them, please, Mihashi!_

With startling clarity Abe realized he wasn't sure- wasn't sure that Mihashi _would_ stay with Nishiura. And with that came a dreadful, sick feeling, some parts wonderment at the idea of losing their pitcher, some parts wonderment at the idea of losing _Mihashi. _

But Mihashi declined, and began to apologize right back at them, stumbling and simple and earnest. Abe's face felt hot; the relief was so intense, and Mihashi's words so sweet.

"But aren't you lonely all by yourself?" Kanou urged, frustration evident.

Abe's heart skipped, just a little bit, in a tiny way, when he saw Mihashi turn to look at the rest of Nishiura. There were tears lighting in his eyes, unshed but thick. He wanted to grab Mihashi and shake him, _You are not alone. I'll be by your side, right? You're our ace. _

His thoughts, urgent and truthful, surprised him, and his face softened when he met Mihashi's eyes. Abe, somehow, knew that he wasn't ashamed to telegraph to Mihashi _exactly_ what he felt.

"I'm not lonely," Mihashi said, and Abe's heart skipped again, strange and thick in his chest, for a reason he couldn't name, couldn't imagine. But it was a good reason. He knew that much. He smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>Peculiar Warmth<strong>

He was at peace. Everything was going well, and he felt confidence bolstering his mood. He and Hanai finished hanging the linens, and Abe turned to see Mihashi still sitting in the futon room, head down. _Was he okay?_

He entered and stooped down, "What are you doing?"

And Mihashi fell over, landing in a heap of limp limbs and strange breath. This time, _this time_, Abe's heart did not just skip. It leapt and slammed into his throat, a terrific fear zinging up his spine. "Mihashi?"

Abe dropped to his hands and knees, panicked, but as he got closer he was relieved to see Mihashi breathing, evenly and softly. His heartbeat began to slow- he hadn't even _realized_ that he was worried there might not be breath in Mihashi's lungs. What would he have _done?_ But Mihashi had only fallen asleep- or, more likely, passed right out.

The other boy's breath was light, a little raspy as it passed between his lips. Maybe his nose was stuffed up? Abe would have to get him some vitamin C before any cold took root. Vitamin C, and maybe some tea? What kind of tea did Mihashi like…?

He stared, and saw for the first time how nice-looking Mihashi could be. There was no fear creasing his brow, no dread or dismay pulling at the corners of his mouth. He was relaxed; skin smooth. It looked soft. Was it? If it was, Abe wondered if Mihashi used a special facial wash for it. Would Mihashi take that kind of special care? Abe didn't know. Maybe he would. His family was pretty well-to-do, weren't they?

His mind swam, totally focused on the sleeping boy.

"What's wrong?" a voice. Hanai. Abe felt a sweep of- was it guilt? Why did feel like he got caught doing something?

"Ah- uh, it's just..." he felt a little stupid, as if the words he wanted to say were trapped behind a wall of transgression, though he knew he had done nothing wrong.

"Did he fall asleep?" Momokan… when had she?

He recovered, "Um… can we let him sleep? He hasn't been sleeping well…"

"Then would you make a bed? We don't want him to catch cold," Momoe smiled. It was a smile similar to the one Shiga had given him on the bus ride over. A sly kind of smile.

Abe went a little red, "Yeah. Sure."

She disappeared, and he rose up to pull a futon out of the closet. It was heavy, but not difficult to maneuver; he saw that Hanai and Sakaeguchi had also disappeared, and it relaxed him somewhat. But why so tense to begin with? Momokan had _told_ him to do this, it wasn't weird. But he supposed he knew why it was a little weird. He glanced at Mihashi, who hadn't moved or made a sound. _Will he be light or heavy?_

Abe pulled out a pillow and spread the comforter; he pulled it partway back so that it would be easy to put over Mihashi, and that was it. There was only the last thing to do. He looked again at Mihashi and felt uncomfortably warm. It was peculiar and unbidden, and he stuffed it down where he kept unwanted feelings for later dissection. This was no big deal- but what if Mihashi woke up? What if he couldn't get back to sleep, and what if he thought of Abe as weird?

Abe shook his head. That was stupid. He probably wouldn't awaken being picked up if he wouldn't wake up to falling over. Carefully, Abe leaned over the sleeping boy. There were a few different ways to go about moving him, but the easiest seemed like it would be a bridal carry. He thread one arm beneath Mihashi's knees and the other behind Mihashi's shoulders. The boy was limp and was a little difficult to pull up, but with a small heave, something clicked, and Mihashi's weight rolled over, into Abe's chest.

He stopped breathing.

Peering down, he saw that Mihashi had not stirred. His blonde head lolled against Abe's chest, warm and without tension. Abe pulled, slowly, up, until Mihashi was safely tucked against his chest and moveable; he was _so_ warm. It was so unusual; maybe in sleep was the only time Mihashi was without the awful tension that could make him so cold during the day. For a moment, Abe only waited there, in a half crouch, with Mihashi's peculiar warmth sinking through his shirt. It was… nice.

Slowly, Abe turned, and just as slowly, so very carefully, placed Mihashi on the waiting futon. Mihashi slipped away from him easily, with no stiffening or awakening. He really was at ease, so deeply asleep and far away from his daily hysterics.

"So even a guy like you can be cute, hunh?" Abe muttered, pulling the comforter over the other boy and tucking him in. It looked cozy, and he thought of how nice it would be to go to sleep later; maybe he would go to bed early.

For a moment, he heard only Mihashi's breath, then a breeze, and the rustling of the woodland. _Ah, _he thought, _but it's been there the whole time. I was just so focused. _

Footsteps. He felt a twinge of embarrassment, for no discernible reason, and leaned back on his heels. Momoe was back, and she beckoned him over. They both looked at the sleeping boy, and Abe wondered why he could not exactly look her in the eyes.

"You gave him this peace of mind, Abe."

"Hunh?" Abe looked to her, confused.

"I mean, you've got his trust. As his catcher, you're devoting yourself to him, and when a catcher does that, his pitcher will do the same, and trust him in return," she paused, "Isn't it nice to be trusted?"

Abe stared at Mihashi, could hear his soft breath even now, as if he were attuned to it. He didn't know what to say. But it… it _was _nice. _Mihashi trusts me. _

It sounded good, solid. It made him feel important, and more than ever, responsible for Mihashi's well-being. If he was going to be Nishiura's ace, he would need Abe to take care of him. _Mihashi trusts me. _

It was dinner time.

_I will devote myself to you for three years, _he thought, firm, while he carefully slid the doors shut. _Believe me. I will make you glad you chose Nishiura._

_Chose me_, a tiny, nearly unconscious thought echoed.


	5. Chapter 5

**(KAI) **This chapter covers episode eight; lots of AbeMiha, a smidgens of SuyaSaka, HanaiTaji, and ShigaMomoe.

* * *

><p><strong>A Great Pitcher<strong>

When Abe looks at him and says good morning, the field rake steady in his hands, Mihashi can barely make a sound. Sakaeguchi's words are tumbling in his mind, sharp like broken glass. _A great pitcher, _he thinks, _Abe used to have a great pitcher. _

_And now he just has me. _

* * *

><p><strong>A Great Pitcher<strong>

Mihashi seems rooted to the ground, small and nervous about god-knows. Abe hails him, evaluates him. He seems healthy enough; no pronounced stoop to his shoulders, no circles beneath his eyes. No paler than usual. The extra sleep on the last day of camp and the vitamins he had instructed Mihashi to load up on seem to have done the trick.

He is relieved.

* * *

><p><strong>Intellectual<strong>

Shiga is explaining kinesthetic meditation to the boys when she approaches. His voice is level and soothing, and he sounds absurdly knowledgeable despite being a high school math teacher. Maria smiles. His smile and excitement for her team is contagious; sweet in it authenticity. And Maria doesn't pretend she doesn't notice how tall and well-built he his while he speaks; he could probably pick her right up.

A shiver, unbidden, and then the boys are taking each other's hands and she can only listen to Shiga's voice, mind clear of stress and tension. She sighs, happy.

* * *

><p><strong>Covetous<strong>

Sakaeguchi is uncomfortably aware of Nishihiro's playfulness toward his classmate. He is even more uncomfortably aware when Suyama's fingers close around the fist that Nishihiro punched amicably into Shoji's palm. He feels a heat spreading up his neck and is sure that he shouldn't be. That doesn't mean anything, and so what if it did? He swallows, once, hard, and tries to focus on the meditation at hand.

But in the back of his mind, his thoughts suggest wildly that he really ought to invite Shoji over, for another sleepover. Soon.

* * *

><p><strong>Nervous<strong>

"Hold hands with the person standing next to you," Shiga is saying, and Abe immediately moves so that he will be beside Mihashi. He wants to gauge Mihashi's tension and warmth personally; if he can start to file away such patterns, that would be for the best. But when Mihashi sees that it's _him _standing alongside, his face takes on that look of nervousness he imagines most people reserve for encounters with wild animals. Wild animals with sharp teeth.

Abe waits, a little discomfited, eyeing Mihashi as if to say, "Well?"

The blonde, eyes wide, twitches and finally accepts Abe's hand, and Abe wonders why he is left feeling vaguely offended, vaguely worried, and vaguely embarrassed.

He watches as Mihashi quickly closes his eyes, and he's certain he hears a small sound in the shorter boy's throat.

_His hand is cold. _

Abe follows Shiga's instructions, imagining that heat is flowing into Mihashi, quickly, surely. It doesn't seem to be working, and he concentrates, imagining torrents of fire, of magma, leaving his hand and entering Mihashi's. He imagines the collective heat of every person on the team surging into Mihashi's cold, sad little hand, and, involuntarily, squeezes.

Mihashi shivers, a tiny, hardly noticeable shiver, but otherwise does not react. Abe is listening to him breathe, and can tell that he must be intensely absorbed in staying calm, staying relaxed. He can do no more, so he relaxes and breathes, and hopes that Mihashi isn't being an idiot and actively distancing himself from receiving support.

It's over. _His hand stayed cold. _

'_Isn't it nice to be trusted?'_

Abe wonders.

* * *

><p><strong>Comfortable<strong>

She settles in beside Shiga, happy and excited. He is the first man she has spent time with where she really feels herself. She can talk excitedly about baseball, or her hair, or mathematics and statistics, or shopping, or what has been troubling her. Shiga takes it all with a smile, generous tips if they apply, and a stolid, easy-going nature that puts her at ease. Momoe wonders if she should say something, if she should drop some kind of hint, but the sun is warm and she feels no hurry. If he were to reject her, that would be terrible- for both her and the team.

Shiga is speaking softly, remarking on the sizable crowd and all of the variable schools who have also made attendance, and what it may mean for Nishiura. Maria gets wrapped up, then, in the conversation, and relaxes. The time will come, and when it does, she hopes he will smile at her the way he is smiling now.

* * *

><p><strong>Hate<strong>

Hanai doesn't hate it when Mizutani hangs on his shoulder, holds on to his arm, and speaks closely in his ear. It's not as though it's embarrassing, somehow, because Mizutani is like that, touchy-feely, and a little weird. He's a little skittish sometimes, like Mihashi. So, Hanai doesn't hate it, but he wonders what the look Tajima shoots his way is for.

* * *

><p><strong>Takaya<strong>

A tall, scary-looking player called from the grounds, banging on the fence. Mihashi, who had followed Abe to where he is sitting, is surprised by the look of recognition on Abe's face, and promptly wants to hide behind him. And then, Abe is getting up, walking over with an angry sound in his throat.

_I didn't know Abe's first name was 'Takaya…' _ Cogs are turning in his mind, but before he has a chance to think, Sakaeguchi is speaking to him, telling him, "That's Haruna," and "That's the amazing pitcher Abe was paired with."

Mihashi kept his mouth shut, suddenly, strangely, uncomfortable and scared. He was surprised by how happy he was when Abe returned, and just as surprised at his agitation when Abe sat below him… instead of beside him.

* * *

><p><strong>Takaya<strong>

He is surprised at how angry he is to hear his name. He had been somewhat prepared to see his former pitcher, but he had hoped somehow to avoid him altogether. Having Mihashi sitting beside him, quiet with his hands between his knees, felt like having a shield made out of the present, a ward against unwanted visitors from the past.

But that had all been silly. Here was Haruna, still ready to pester him after all this time.

"You really can't subordinate to anyone, can you?" the prick was saying, know-it-all grin on his face. Abe wanted to punch him.

"I remember it was half a year before you could catch my pitches. You were covered in bruises." What was that self-satisfied smirk for? If Haruna was aiming to piss him off, he was succeeding.

Finally it was over. He returned to the part of the stand he has staked out, but sat below Mihashi. Seething the way he was, he didn't want to infect his pitcher- _his current and excellent pitcher, better in every way than Haruna-_ with bad energy. Sakaeguchi was talking, and he wanted, briefly, just to get up and leave, but he took a deep breath, stomped the tantrum down, and told himself it was over.

When Sakaeguchi wandered off, he eased himself up until he was level once more with Mihashi; the blonde smiled, nervous and crooked, before turning back to the field, and Abe felt immediately, oddly, better.

* * *

><p><strong>So Fast<strong>

In the bullpen, Haruna pitches a ball to his catcher that hits the glove with a heavy, hard _thud_. Mihashi can hardly believe it, and it makes his guts churn with bile. He can't help by cry, and, folding down, in on himself, he thinks, _He's not the worst pitcher… Abe- Abe-_

Haruna is not the worst pitcher. It's him.

Those fastballs-! They're amazing. He can't compare. It's not- it's not fair- A memory of Abe holding his hand in Ohno, telling him- maybe lying to him- that he is a good pitcher. A sharp little stab of hurt goes through him, and he can't stop crying. _Abe only complimented me so I'd pitch comfortably. I can __see that now… I shouldn't have let that kind of thing go to my head._

He wasn't certain if there was a measure of betrayal in his feelings, but he knew he felt hurt. And useless, and weak. _Abe knows… Abe knows a truly amazing pitcher. _

Mihashi's took a deep breath; the tears came on fast and tended to dissipate just as quickly. He wanted, desperately, to see a bright side, and in the end, it was still Abe. _He… he did want me to pitch comfortably. I'll just take that part… and always treasure it._

_Always, always, always treasure it.  
><em>


	6. Chapter 6

**(KAI) **This chapter covers episodes nine and ten. AbeMiha, some HanaiTaji, a little SuyaSaka and ShigaMomoe.

* * *

><p><strong>Edge<strong>

He's feeling… on edge, when Sakaeguchi brings Haruna back into the conversation. And even more so, when he calls over Mihashi. The pitcher's face is easy to read, and it drives him, suddenly, crazy.

Sakaeguchi pushes, and finally drives home a point Abe is sure was made for Mihashi's benefit, and not his own. "Calling someone you once teamed up with 'the worst,' doesn't make the people you're teamed up with now feel too good!"

It clicks. Sakaeguchi is some kind of Sherlock Holmes. Abe looks at Mihashi and says, "Really?"

And the pitcher's too-easy-to-read face says it all. He's back on edge, sharply and because of Mihashi, always because of Mihashi, he presses his fists into Mihashi's thick skull, "What the hell does that kind of reaction mean?"

"E-Even though I'm the worst pitcher, I'll just pitch with everything I have…!" Mihashi wails softly, eyes troubled and cheeks flushed. Abe can't figure how… how this guy manages.

"You don't have to freak out like that. Who said you were the worst pitcher?" Sakaeguchi is patting Mihashi's back, and Abe knows that, as usual, Mihashi is close to tears. He is caught between feeling frustration and guilt and it does nothing for his temper. There's a confession inside him, about Haruna, but he can't expose it, so he only offers, "Look… Haruna is completely different than you. He's playing to become a pro."

Mihashi's voice is reverent, and Abe, a little bit, hates it, "That would be… amazing!"

"Yes, he's amazing," Abe admits, grumbling and honest, "He's _so_ amazing he never threw more than eighty pitches, even after becoming the team's ace pitcher. And if the game wasn't 'worth' going all-out for, he didn't throw a single pitch at full strength."

The conversation goes on, and Abe wonders if he'll ever be able to tell anyone the whole truth.

* * *

><p><strong>Grieving<strong>

Mihashi couldn't help it; Abe's story _hurt_. It hurt him on several levels; as a pitcher, as a team-mate, and as someone who thought of Abe as his friend- as his first friend.

_Abe wanted Haruna to really see him. To be a battery for real… Abe just wanted Haruna to treasure playing ball with him then… Not in the future, when Haruna became a pro…_

In a strange, clear way, Mihashi knew his heart was breaking a little bit, just for Abe.

_How… How can I ever replace that pitcher in Abe's heart? _

"You'd better learn to stop crying and trembling and all that."

Mihashi shivered; was he upsetting Abe?

"Let's see," the catcher looked serious, but a little strange, as if he were nervous, "On the mound, a poker face is fine… but, smiling is the best!"

It was shocking, but sweet. Mihashi knew, somehow, that the smile was for his benefit. And that made the heartbreak a little gentler, a little less sharp. Mihashi tried, pulling the corners of his face in an earnest attempt. It felt weird, and he didn't think he'd succeeded, but- but Abe was laughing. And it was the first time Mihashi had seen Abe laugh.

It was… really nice.

* * *

><p><strong>Grieving<strong>

"You'd better learn to stop crying and trembling and all that."

The truth was, it actually just hurt Abe to see, and he'd begun to feel like he ought to _do_ something. Momoe had told him to take care of Mihashi, and if Mihashi was crying, that was his responsibility. But he didn't know how to deal with it… and it shamed him, but it was terrifying to put himself out… _there_.

"Let's see," Abe mused, trying to change the direction of things, trying to put _some_ effort into being the support that Mihashi needed, "On the mound, a poker face is fine… but, smiling is the best!"

He threw out a thumbs up and grinned, feeling foolish but a little giddy. He hoped that it helped, that Mihashi would smile back.

He went on, and then watched as Mihashi made a silly attempt, pulling at his cheeks. It was… cute. Really cute. He felt something relax inside of himself and he began to laugh, happy in a small, strange way.

* * *

><p><strong>Everlasting Gaze<strong>

At their next practice, Mihashi finds himself looking at Abe. His eyes, seemingly of their own will, slide their gaze to Abe's back. There is the back of his neck, and his dark hair. At a certain angle, Mihashi can see the curve of Abe's ear, which is a little paler than the rest of him. A feeling of optimism is growing in his belly.

_I'll become a proper battery with Abe. I'll be the one to pitch to Abe!_

And that optimism is a comfort until Abe- Abe!- suggests they need another pitcher. Mihashi feels like the world is going out from under him. His eyes feel wet, he feels dizzy. Why would Abe…?

He is crying, quietly. _I'm replaceable. _

Sakaeguchi's voice behind him, "Maybe he's worried that the new pitcher will take the mound away from him?"

Oh. Oh, that _hurts._

And then Abe, firm, "How would you get by as the only pitcher from now on?"

_Does he… is he… concerned?_

But then Abe is yelling at him again, and so is Coach. _But I could… I could pitch two games a day. I used to…!_

Coach is berating him, explaining the situation, and it's nice to have Sakaeguchi right there, because Sakaeguchi always seems to understand. But he wishes Abe understood, and that Coach understood.

And he wishes he understood, too.

When Tajima puts the Number 1 on his back, though, that makes it better, and he is _so _grateful. He feels dazed and happy, optimistic once more.

* * *

><p><strong>Everlasting Gaze<strong>

The dopey, blushing look on Mihashi's face after Tajima marks his practice jersey with the Number '1' makes Abe feel a startling combination of things; he's glad that Mihashi is no longer crying, irritated at Tajima for no reason at all, and irritated at Mihashi for taking up their practice time with his histrionics.

But, overwhelmingly, he's just glad that Mihashi isn't crying, that he seems okay, giggling softly to himself. Even if Abe can't seem to go five minutes without his attention straying back to their ridiculous pitcher.

* * *

><p><strong>Running<strong>

Abe's expression was unreadable, but Mihashi knew, _knew_, he was in trouble when, after the first practice pitch, Abe stood and approached him. He had to run- had to hide- where could he go-

Mihashi looked wildly left and right, until Abe got so close he turned a violent 180 and gripped the net that ran the length of the field where the bullpen lay.

What was it _about_ Abe that made him so, so nervous?

"Listen. I can't read your mind, you know?" Mihashi took a deep breath; he wasn't really in trouble. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

_I think so. I'm not sure…_

"I'm saying- if you don't understand something, just ask me!" Abe's voice was… kind. "I promise I won't get mad, no matter what you ask."

A pause. "Well… I can't promise I won't get upset at all…"

Mihashi stared. Abe _did_ have a temper. But, he wasn't cruel. He got upset… because he cared?

"Something…" Mihashi repeated. If something happened to Abe, then-

"So _that's_ what you're worried about."

"Because… without you, Abe… I'm just a hopeless pitcher. I- I can't-" he felt emotion in his throat, thick and tight.

"That's not true!" the catcher was intense, fists balled.

"Yes, it is!" Mihashi blurted, heart pounding. Without Abe- he didn't know what he would do. "If you don't- if you don't catch for me, I'll be back to… back to being a useless pitcher."

Abe regarded him, smiled, thinking, _Is that the first time he's said something positive about himself? In a way. I see… _"Okay, then. For the next three years, I will not get hurt. I won't get ill, either. I'll be your catcher for all the games you pitch. In return… You stay healthy and don't get hurt, either."

Mihashi grinned, a swell of happiness filling his chest, overwhelming him, "Okay!"

He didn't feel like running anymore.

* * *

><p><strong>A Fluke<strong>

"What do you mean, a 'fluke?'" Hanai laughed, feeling light and happy. He hadn't pitched in- oh, it felt like years. But it was more fun than he remembered it, and Tajima was being unusually relaxed and easy-going with him.

It seemed sometimes that Tajima avoided him, or didn't particularly include him in his conversations. It might have been Hanai's imagination, but he was suspicious. He didn't think he had done anything, but then- some guys just pick and choose who they're going to be friendly with. And what did it matter? Why should Hanai be that out of shape about it?

But after their win, and after seeing Haruna pitch, Tajima was in high spirits, and it was as though those times where he had neglected Hanai had never been. It was nice. He felt like a team-mate to Tajima once again.

The catcher-in-training laughed, and caught another pitch.

* * *

><p><strong>Excitement<strong>

"Ah, they were certainly happy to choose their captain."

"I'm glad- their excitement level really fires me up!" Momoe gushed, following her statement with a long drink of ramen broth, "And- and I really think they're going to be committed for all three years. I know they're going to go far."

Shiga watched her, noted the flush on her cheeks as she drank more of the hot broth. It was lovely; many things about her, were. The way the sun shone in her hair, the way her skin glistened on a hot day. Even the way she drank down broth was cute. He smiled, turning back to his own bowl.

"It's because of you that they'll go far; you are an excellent coach, Momoe."

"A-ah. Yes," she stammered, embarrassed, and that was lovely, too.

* * *

><p><strong>Excuse<strong>

It was Mihashi's birthday; it was odd, but Mihashi clearly hadn't been out to trick them, the way he stuttered and blushed and tried to keep his mother quiet. It was cute. Sakaeguchi had gone to carry the food, and it was the perfect excuse- Suyama walked forward, touched the shorter boy's elbow, and smiled.

"I'll help," he said softly, smiling.

To Suyama's delight, Yuuto smiled back.

* * *

><p><strong>Jostle<strong>

When Tajima sat beside Hanai, it was only _partially _calculated- and he didn't quite know why. Something about Hanai got under his skin, irritated him a little, but catching his pitches earlier in the day, he had temporarily forgotten. Now, in Mihashi's house, he chose to experiment, and see if maybe he was just being crazy- maybe it was something about him, and not Hanai.

The only conclusive data he managed to collect was that he noticed- every time- when Hanai's elbow or shoulder brushed his.

* * *

><p><strong>Birthday<strong>

The best part about his sudden birthday party, was seeing Abe smile.

* * *

><p><strong>Birthday<strong>

Touching Sakaeguchi's elbow _nothing, _the handsome young man remembered his _birthday. _Suyama smiled happily. Sakaeguchi was the best friend he had, and he loved the attention Yuuto paid.

* * *

><p><strong>Shyness<strong>

Abe thinks about it- how different Mihashi is today versus more than a month ago. He's still pretty shy, skittish, nervous, and panicky. But he speaks up more, has gone out of his way to bring his point of view to the table, has taken risks. Tajima has taken to him like a brother, Sakaeguchi hovers always near, always ready to translate his ramblings. Mihashi has attracted friends, is growing.

_I didn't think it mattered. As long as he accepted my signs. But... that was petty. He deserved more from me. He's worked hard. He…_

Abe examined the tape that ran the length of Mihashi's backyard bull-pen. Working _so _hard. _I want him to let him make the most out of all his efforts. I want to help Mihashi win!_

He resolved himself. _So, my first priority is- no Fs!_ He marched over to Mihashi and grabbed his shirt, already planning, already making lists in his mind, and considering strategies to help Mihashi succeed.

And another thought, tiny, underneath it all, _I want to let him be happy. _


	7. Chapter 7

**(KAI) **This chapter covers episodes eleven through thirteen. There's AbeMiha, a little HanaiTajima, SuyaSaka, some HamadaIzumi, and a bit of ShigaMomoe. Also a smidgen of RapistHaruna.

* * *

><p><strong>Floor<strong>

The floor is cold under his slacks. He shivers, shakes. Haruna is yelling at him, and someone is yelling at Haruna, and the floor is _cold. _He wishes Abe were there.

* * *

><p><strong>Tremble<strong>

There is something unreasonably erotic about this boy, shaking against the lavatory wall. His face is flushed, his eyes are bright and looking everywhere but at Haruna. Haruna smiles; the tiny pitcher's hands are gripping the front of his rumpled white shirt.

It's nice to see someone so afraid, so wracked with nervousness. He feels powerful. So this is Takaya's new pitcher. Right.

If they were alone, Haruna would shove the shaking boy into a stall and show him what Takaya's been missing.

He claps the blonde on the shoulder, fingers digging in, strong; the fear and reverence in the boy's face every aphrodisiac he's ever loved, "Let's do our best!"

* * *

><p><strong>Irreverent Light<strong>

Abe already hated Haruna. Fiercely. But if he hadn't, Mihashi's shining eyes and clear hero-worship would have done the trick. He maintained his cool, but he wanted to punch a wall.

* * *

><p><strong>Unveiled<strong>

The painted curtain slowly rose, and majestic music played over the speakers; the scheduling department would not be shorted on ceremony. Hanai watched a moment, the unbelievably large tournament board gradually entering his vision. To his left, he heard a low hum of excitement; a long, awe-inspired breath that had every inflection of potential and challenge- Tajima. The captain turned his gaze, mouth in a straight pull of tension. What was the magnetism? Tajima was grinning at Mizutani and Hanai wondered, if _he_ were sitting by the clean-up hitter, would _he_ be graced with that impish grin?

He looked up, distracted. and ill at ease

* * *

><p><strong>Imaginary Heat<strong>

Later, Mihashi will remember the moment Abe pulled him near. He will remember how easily pulled forward he was, and how close Abe knuckles were to his throat. He will grasp the front of his shirt and remember, searching his memory for a trace of the heat he can now only imagine, its importance something he can not even guess at.

* * *

><p><strong>Level<strong>

Seeing Hamada makes Izumi's insides tight, as if he's being squeezed. He grips the handles of his bike, speaks calmly, and waits, but his chest doesn't come un-done until Hamada had left.

All through practice, however, he cannot get Hamada's form from his mind, cannot exorcise his playful voice, wide shoulders, and firm torso- seen as the older boy stretched and smiled. Seen, and regretted immediately.

* * *

><p><strong>Brushing<strong>

Brushing the baseballs with Mihashi was a quiet, but intense experience. The pitcher hardly spoke, but his body vibrated with barely contained thought; his brush strokes were erratic and the ball turned with irregular movements in his pale hands. Abe wasn't sure he would get an answer even if he _did _ask, so he didn't. Life would be so much easier if interrogating Mihashi yielded results even half the time.

Hamada had arrived, and there, at least, went half the mystery. Mihashi glanced at the older boy repeatedly, brushing quickly; indecision was clear on his face, in his jerky movements. Abe felt himself growing impatient- as if something depended on Mihashi choosing to act. The impatience grew and finally tumbled over; dragging his catcher by the collar he ground out, "If he's on your mind, just go say 'hi'!"

And so what if Hamada was on Mihashi's mind, anyhow.

* * *

><p><strong>Unbelievable <strong>

"Injury? Illness? Stupidity?"

The things that come out of Tajima's mouth… make Hanai's head spin.

* * *

><p><strong>Near<strong>

Before the meditation, Hamada stood a short distance from him, out of his element, seeking something familiar. He stood close enough that he could see the few, light little freckles on the back of the shorter boy's neck, and where the tips of his hair brushed those freckles. He stood far enough away that it would seem unintentional, without meaning, and normal.

But it wasn't any of those things.

And Izumi ignored him.

* * *

><p><strong>Near<strong>

It was hard to concentrate. Shiga's words were diving into one ear and out the other; did Hamada have to do this? He was close by; close enough that if Izumi whirled around and took a step forward- if he out-stretched his arm- he'd be able to grasp the front of Yoshiro's windbreaker. And if he did that, then he could just push him, into the dirt, but would he punch him or kiss him once he was down there?

Izumi shivered. He knew the answer and he hated it.

Damn Hamada, anyway.

"I don't have any idea what's going on," Hamada confessed in a low tone, chagrin clear. It was familiar, that low tone.

"I'll explain it to you later," Izumi whispered back, quickly, not giving himself a chance to back out. And it was over. If it was a mercy, he didn't know if it was Hamada or for himself.

* * *

><p><strong>Scenery<strong>

On his way to work some morning not too long ago, Shiga had seen, very clearly, Momoe jogging along the pedestrian traffic road that ran along the other side of the flower box dividers. His throat had gotten a little tight- between her plaited hair and little shorts and the thin sheen of sweat on her skin- he had forgotten, for just a moment, to keep his thoughts neutral, to be an honorable mentor to her.

The lights changed and he was on his way, hating the way his body betrayed him.

* * *

><p><strong>Hand-Holding<strong>

This is the best part of Suyama's day. As the time to meditate came, Sakaeguchi had ended up beside him, and now the shorter boy's hand was tucked safely in his. Izumi was on his other side, looking vaguely tense, but that was nothing compared to the calm and the peacefulness that holding Yuuto's warm hand brought him. There could be ten runners on base, and this feeling could sustain him. He didn't ever want to let go.

* * *

><p>Tajima's hand isn't just warm, it's hot. Hanai is expressly aware of it, and also of how, despite the closeness of their palms, Tajima is paying him no attention.<p>

At least, so far as he can tell.

* * *

><p>Mihashi's hand is cold in his, and Hamada is on the other side of the pitcher. And it isn't as though Izumi would have held Hamada's hand, <em>anyway, <em>so it doesn't matter where he is.

Not even a little bit.

* * *

><p>They aren't holding hands, but Abe, strangely, thinks he still can hear Mihashi breathing nearby.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Break<strong>

After practice, Abe can see the strain in Mihashi's shoulders, and he can see the look of desperation when Shinooka brings out the rice balls. So, he sits beside their pitcher and watches him eat; tells him to take it slow- "Don't inhale it!" -and to relax, "You don't have to sit so formally…"

Mihashi eats happily, eyes down, body language at ease. He glances at Abe occasionally, and his smile quirks, brightens.

It's a nice thing to see, Mihashi being so agreeable.

* * *

><p><strong>Better<strong>

Weeks later, Izumi is being uncharacteristically pleasant and Hamada doesn't ask questions. The younger boy is still aloof, still distant, but less cold. If it's because Hamada has been there for most of the practices, helping and being as impartial as possible, then Hamada is happy enough.

But he wishes that it was because Izumi might have forgiven him.

* * *

><p><strong>Look, Look<strong>

"It's not a game, so you can pitch to Tajima, can't you?" Abe gave Mihashi a look he hoped was neutral.

"It's n-not that-" his eyes were wide, peeking left and right. The pitcher stammered on, "T-Today, I w-wanted you to look-"

Abe kept his tone light, his stress level was by and large lower than usual, and he found Mihashi's attempt at maintaining his attention oddly charming, "I'll take a look. What do you…?"

A tiny gasp of air breezed past Mihashi's throat and he ran, "I'll be right back!"

He came back with Momoe's block of wood, a nervous, hopeful expression on his pale face, "This-!"

Abe was genuinely surprised, and when Mihashi balanced completely on the block in wind-up stance, he was also impressed. His bashful, proud-of-himself face, that was- it was-

His mind switched gears. If Mihashi had improved that much in such a short time-

"Have you been doing this at home after we finish practice at nine?" he growled, anxious.

Mihashi's voice was high and fast, "No! No, I didn't do it at home. I just practiced during break, in the classroom…!"

Relief. At least Mihashi hadn't over-burdened himself in the evening. The relief burst through him, hotter than normal, agitated, "Honestly! You are so impossible!"

And he had stepped forward, ruffling one hand through Mihashi's hair before bringing both fists to either side of the boy's head. As he pushed, he felt resolved, and he felt admiration for Mihashi's concentration and drive. And he walks away before _His hair is soft_ has a chance to sink in.

* * *

><p><strong>Look, Look<strong>

He wanted to cry. He'd been _so_ excited to show Abe his improvement, but…

"He got mad at me…" his face was _so _hot; why did he always have to mess things up?

"No, he didn't," Tajima said, confident, walking close, "His voice wasn't angry."

"R-Really?" Mihashi sniffed; if Abe wasn't mad, then… that would be great. That would make things… better. He dropped his head, feeling a little of the tension ease from his spine. _His opinion is so important to me, I don't… he's my catcher, but… why am I so desperate to… to what? _

_I guess I just want him to tell me I'm doing a good job again. Like that day…_

Tajima re-inked the 'one' on his back, muttering conspiratorially. It was nice to have a friend like him. Mihashi felt better; as long as Abe wasn't really mad, then everything was better. He stood, "Tha- Thank you."

* * *

><p><strong>Instigation<strong>

"I don't really mind, but you're intentionally cocky to me, aren't you?" Hamada muttered when Izumi greeted him, knocking his hat askance for a moment.

The younger boy's face is guarded, passive. It's as though all the things that used to be have been erased. Hamada hates it. "You'll really wear the winter clothes in the middle of the summer?" Izumi is saying, somehow playful, somehow speaking down to him, "Aren't you hot?"

It isn't as though he can confront Izumi about it here, in front of his team-mates, so he responds with aplomb, sweating a bit more under the scrutiny of Izumi's calm gaze. He feels emboldened when Hanai asks after his elbow, and he makes a grab for Kosuke's face. It's pliant and it feels good to harass the younger boy right back. Though he wishes he were not wearing gloves, because he would kill to feel the other boy's skin again.

More than the attitude, how can Izumi be so calm? So distant? After everything… could it be possible he's really given up, drawn away, and forgotten about their feelings?

It seems impossible as Kosuke grasps his hands, his calm finally broken, an expression of equal parts irritation and discomposure on his freckled face. If he had the time, Hamada would count those freckles again, over and over, if Izumi would let him, but there is no time, and Izumi is trying to forget him, and there are other things by which to be distracted.

And Izumi has _no_ problem breaking up their rough-housing with a measure of violence, which hurts in many more ways than one.

* * *

><p><strong>Instigation<strong>

Sakaeguchi always seems to know what's on the mind of his team-mates; before they have a chance, he broaches and examines and queries with his soft voice, and it's _very_ hard to keep a secret then.

"If you want him to join baseball club, why don't you just say so?" Sakaeguchi asks gently, pushing a rake across the dirt.

Izumi swallows, keeping his eyes down, and continues to water. _Why? Why, why, why. _"He said his body can't keep up," he finally says, energy gone, will sapped. And then, without thinking, he sighs.

_Why, why, why. _

* * *

><p><strong>Caring<strong>

It is dark, and the light in the dug-out is buzzing, humming, a few bugs flinging themselves around it. Though it is no special occasion, Mihashi is kneeling on one bench waiting for him, his shoulders hunched, his hands in small fists against his knees. He looks small, compressed. Abe is certain he could pick the other boy up and carry him anywhere.

When he begins to lose his temper, Mihashi draws away from him, making nervous, shuddering sounds. He won't make eye contact. Abe takes a deep breath. There's something vaguely painful about Mihashi avoiding him, shying away. He feels like a wolf, cornering a bird- a bird with a broken wing. He eases up.

"Here, it's just this one page, so memorize the batter's likes and dislikes," he drops a sheet in front of the other boy and waits. Though he acts like he may get bitten, Mihashi picks it up and begins to read. It isn't long, however, before his eyes start fluttering shut and open, and his breath flickers with sleepiness. It perturbs Abe- perturbs him because it's important that Mihashi put the effort into this, that he should have been working on it for the past week, and that he looks _so_ vulnerable as his body tries to shut down around him. It's discomfiting to think, over and over again, that Mihashi would be easy to pick up, to carry, to take away. _Take where…?_

Abe slams his foot into the next bench up, heart beating more quickly. The _bang_ jars Mihashi, startles him, and makes his shiver. "Hello, there! Time to wake up."

It is difficult, but they begin to communicate, Mihashi falling out of his rigid pose. Abe doesn't like the tears, but he feels that they're making headway. Baseball just plain makes this easier; everything makes more sense if he just concentrates on baseball.

Even though he wants Mihashi to understand the point of the de-briefing sessions, it feels good to hear him say that he trusts Abe to call the shots. It's empowering. He feels more at ease, more in control, and reflects on how much it means to be listened to. _So you see, Mihashi, you are a much better pitcher than Haruna. In every way. I'm glad that you have confidence in your control, at least. It's good; you __should have confidence. _

Abe reflects, and watches Mihashi read. The blonde's eyes flicker upward, catch his, and he shifts, disconcerted. _I guess it might be less of a confidence things and more that you just… trust me. Being trusted makes me happy… but it's a big responsibility. _

Mihashi's eyes are large and wet; he's panicking over the sheet, rocking- perhaps in an attempt to stay awake. _How am I going to take care of you…? _he thinks, before continuing to coach the pitcher on his memorization, making every attempt to be more gentle, less temperamental, more supportive.

It gets a little easier.


	8. Chapter 8

**(KAI) **This chapter covers episodes fourteen through sixteen. Mostly AbeMiha, a little HamaIzu, HanaiTaji, SuyaSaka, and a tiny, tiny bit of MomoShiga.

* * *

><p><strong>In Good Condition<strong>

This is the first game; anything could happen. Mihashi feels a troubling combination of confidence and fear. The fear of the unknown; fear of failing. Confidence in Abe's signs; Abe calls him over, and their palms fit neatly together. There is a comfort in this act, something that helps the confidence win over the fear.

He lists off the events of his morning, and proudly explains that he hasn't forgotten anything. Abe's voice is low, but not angry. He's just listening, and Mihashi gets a little nervous- a little flustered, and begins rambling- but it's a strange, happy little nervous that doesn't quite fade off when Tajima throws an arm around his neck, and changes the course of things.

* * *

><p><strong>Missed<strong>

It's nice to see Mihashi's mom; she had always been nice to the neighborhood kids, and it was funny that she didn't recognize him. Hamada felt a growing excitement for the day; good things were going to happen, he had a feeling.

That morning, Izumi had greeted him warmly before blushing and turning away, as if he'd made a mistake, and it was cute to see him flustered, human. Hamada loved that he was always trying to play it mature, but was really just a flighty, insecure teenager, like everybody else around them. It meant something, though, for Izumi to slip like that; if ever there was a good omen, that was it.

Hamada only wished the other boy had come closer to the fence so he could have said Hello. He smiled; there was always cheering.

* * *

><p><strong>Cheer<strong>

Izumi can't help the rush of excitement and glee at the trumpeting and shouting, and the way his skin is still vibrating from the first hit of the game. As he hands off the batting gloves, though reluctant, he has to hand it to Hamada for the hard work getting all those students to come. Many are from his own class. He can see Yoshiro in the stands, waving his arms- and because the blonde won't be able to see it, Izumi lets himself smile

* * *

><p><strong>Pressure<strong>

Meeting Tajima as he heads for the dugout, Hanai is ready with the clean-up's glove. He is glad to see that, with typical ease, Tajima does not seem too upset about the turn-over. In a few short moments, they talk sliders and forkballs, but then-

"I'm counting on you, fifth batter!" Tajima says, cheery and serious.

And for no reason whatsoever, Hanai feels his face go warm and his stomach flip

* * *

><p><strong>Rain<strong>

Only a moment before it starts, Abe cautions him to enter the dugout. But it feels like heaven on his neck, and he looks up into the sky, where the gravid, ashen clouds have accumulated. He admires it for a moment, and tries to remember the last time it felt so nice to feel dampness on his cheeks.

* * *

><p><strong>Foreboding<strong>

"Your form is great today," Abe compliments, feeling pride for Mihashi's skill. But the heavy flush on the pitcher's cheeks worries him; there is rain and sweat in abundance on his skin, and he wonders if Mihashi is over-heating. It's a troubling thought. One that puts a small knot in Abe's middle.

* * *

><p><strong>Nice Batting<strong>

Fifth up, Hanai is thrilled when his hit escapes the mitts of the opposing team and lands on the ground, saving his dash to first base. Tajima is there, grinning and clapping, and carols, "Nice batting!"

A warmth creeps up his neck and face, along with a pleasant heat in his chest at the short boy's enthusiasm.

_It really wasn't such nice batting, not really. But it didn't feel bad when Tajima said that. _

* * *

><p><strong>Compliment<strong>

Tajima grinned. Was that the kind of face Hanai made when someone complimented him?

…He would have to compliment their captain more often.

* * *

><p><strong>Modus<strong>

Later, and it is _much _later- weeks and some days- Abe realizes a strange, pivotal fact. While the stands had cheered Mihashi's name, and he had been coaching the blonde not to get hurt, to be careful, and to do his best, he had been focused solely on the pitcher. Something about that was normal, but the rest wasn't.

The redness of Mihashi's face, the agape look as the fans, the classmates, and the mothers all cheered, and the way Mihashi had gripped the bat in surprise; all of those things, and thinking _Is he all right?_

And adding those things together, yielding a sum that was this pivotal fact: Mihashi was cute. He was really, really cute sometimes. Abe didn't know what to do with this fact, but he had to accept it. Mulling over his dinner, examining grains of rice, he allowed that there was nothing wrong with it- Mihashi was a funny little guy, after all. He was like a puppy, or a kitten, or some other useless baby animal that needed to be taken care of. All of those such things were cute, so why not Mihashi?

So there, that was okay.

So then why… why couldn't his mind move on to other things?

* * *

><p><strong>Tumble<strong>

Abe's heart stops; just _stops. _The tumble Mihashi takes over first base is ridiculous, long and scattered and absurd. Abe's pulse is in his throat, stopping up his breathing with painful worry. He wants to sprint from the dug-out, grab Mihashi by the shoulders and _shake_. 'What were you thinking? Are you okay?' he would say, checking the pitcher everywhere, all over. Anything could be hurt, anything at all, but if his arm- oh, god-

All of this in a flash, all of Abe's blood reaching the freezing point before Mihashi sits up in the dirt, face rosy and anticipatory.

Abe is shocked to learn he can still breathe.

Tajima and an official are by the pitcher, and Abe is rooted to the spot, somehow unable to act on his impulse. His thoughts are a jumble of tactics- _He could have lied and said he was hurting and we could have put in a substitute runner!- _and concern- _it usually doesn't hurt right after you've been injured!_

The jumble and tenseness are unending, and he knows he's shaking with the chaos of feelings, but where it concerns Mihashi, it is impossible to just stop.

* * *

><p><strong>Linger<strong>

His concern is like a palpable thing; Mihashi thinks he can feel it as he sits on the bench, his legs outstretched. But everything does feel fine- he hardly feels like he fell at all. But it's nice to have the attention, for whatever reason. Abe's voice is insistent, strangely troubled. It makes Mihashi feel warm inside, cared for. He feels guilty, too, but he's trying to enjoy the feeling of being important to the team and especially to Abe.

Shiga is saying, "Mihashi's got a very flexible body."

Abe's face is intense, still unsure, and Mihashi wants to say, 'I stretch all the time, even when I'm doing homework. Sometimes I'll do it while I eat. I'm okay.'

But still, it is nice to have Abe hover like this.

* * *

><p><strong>Allay<strong>

Sakaeguchi drifts toward Tajima and Suyama when Abe and Mihashi disappear into the dug-out. He's worried. Mihashi seems out of sorts, too flushed. He _knows _something is up. When he reaches Suyama's side, he feels marginally better. Shoji gives him a quick smile while he speaks to Tajima about Mihashi's condition, and Sakaeguchi is glad to see he's not the only one concerned.

* * *

><p><strong>Distraction<strong>

Even while they discuss Mihashi's peculiar temperature, Maria notices and likes Shiga's playful tie. It compliments his eyes, and his chest.

* * *

><p><strong>Care<strong>

Abe wants to give Mihashi a break; he can see sweat beading down the sharp curve of his cheek, where the strong flush has abated only slightly from the break he'd been afforded in the dug-out. He wants to grab him and send him back to the bench, give him water, check his temperature with the back of his hand, keep an eye on him. He wants to do these things, and he doesn't wonder why.

* * *

><p><strong>Undue Energies<br>**

As usual, after he bats, Mihashi is in the dugout with his catcher's gear in his skinny arms. This is one of the sweetest things Abe has ever suffered through, and he generally has allowed it, but today…

Today he is worried. "Put those down. You don't need to bring them to me."

If Mihashi over-exerts himself, they're done for. Game over, dream over. Done. And Mihashi doesn't look so great. Past the flush, his face is taking on a pallid coloring. "Have you had anything to drink?"

"Y-Yes!" the pitcher stops fumbling with the gear, being so over-careful with it. His shoulders seem tense, his voice a little shaky.

Abe grumbles loudly, "If you have something to say, just say it!"

He sits, and Mihashi looks up at him with bright eyes, "Only- only, you're amazing, Abe!"

As he sits, Abe looks down at him, genuinely confused, "What's so amazing about striking out?"

They talk of the strike-outs; it's surprising to Abe that Mihashi gives him the credit, until he _remembers._ It's Mihashi, not a normal pitcher. He's neither a hog for glory nor fishing for compliments. Well, maybe not all pitchers are like that, sure, but Abe's only got his bad impressions. He begins to strap on his gear, and although he has tried to assure Mihashi that it was his own throws that struck out the opposition, the pitcher is suddenly looking down, his voice sweet and nervous.

"I always thought about how I would pitch," he began, quiet, hands on his knees. "But…"

The rise of feeling in Abe's chest makes him nervous. It's unbidden, too warm. What is Mihashi trying to say? What-?

"Th-thank you, Abe!" Mihashi looks up, right into his eyes, and it's like being punched. He feels like the wind's been knocked out of his lungs; his stomach is tight, breath suddenly stuck. How can this person in front of him be so… kind? So earnestly, truly kind and sweet? Abe stares, thunderstruck, unable to move. And Mihashi stares back, long enough that Abe can see, clearly, the gold tones in his honey and cinnamon brown eyes.

Izumi hits, they cheer; it's automatic and it breaks the spell. Mihashi scrambles away to join the rest of the team at the gate. Abe's hands are chill. _Thank you?_

_What's he saying that in the middle of a game for? _And then Abe feels them, tears- hot in his eyes and about to spill. His heart hammers once, twice against his ribs, and the feeling of tightness in his stomach grips harder. Abe holds himself together, barely, and wonders how Mihashi got so suddenly eloquent. So clear. Looking at him from afar, the rosy flush is prominent on his cheeks, and so is the drastic difference in size between him and the other guys.

He begins to think of how much energy Mihashi must be expending, with this odd switch flipped inside of him, making him more bold and confident and daring and loud. It can't be pacing, but in a game situation like this… going at this breakneck pace, won't he break down?

Abe's stomach flips, and his heart hammers again, hard, but just the once. Whatever his body had been trying to tell him before, now it's clearly broadcasting fear. Abe takes a deep breath. _How am I going to take care of you?_


	9. Chapter 9

**(KAI) **This chapter covers episodes seventeen through twenty. Mostly AbeMiha; minute HanaiTaji, HamaIzu, SuyaSaka.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Ultra High<strong>

Everyone is praising him. Their turn at defense has gone swimmingly, beautifully. Mihashi can hardly believe it; it's as though he's walking through a cloud- even his vision is a little hazy. He's got to thank Abe- and when he walks into the dug-out, mitt grasped to his chest, he feels a shiver- because there Abe is, watching him with serious eyes and a guarded expression.

* * *

><p><strong>Interesting Impasse<strong>

Tajima knows that Hanai is disappointed by his strike-out. Anyone would be; they all want to get on base and bring the team to its first victory. It's early in the game yet, so there's no telling what will happen, but Tajima is confident, optimistic.

Still, mulling it over, leaning on the rail of the dug-out, he's certain he's more disappointed by Hanai's strike-out than their captain is; after all, Tajima had been looking forward to complimenting him again, to maybe see, and maybe ponder, that interesting expression a compliment puts on Hanai's face.

* * *

><p><strong>Absolute Expression<strong>

The muddy ground is chill and refreshing; Mihashi looks up, can feel it stick to his cheeks. A long, agitated moment stretches in silence. And then the umpire calls an out and everything is okay. He picks himself up, brushing mud from his knees, and when he looks up, he can see Abe beaming at him from the plate. There is laughter in his voice when he asks "You didn't get hurt, right?"

Mihashi affirms, holds his mitt against his chest to hold in the bird that frantically beats against the inside of his ribs. Abe's smile. Abe's teeth and grinning mouth and wide, bright eyes. An expression that is completely unguarded- as though he is allowing Mihashi in, if only for a moment.

The pitcher grins back, energy rocketing through his body and limbs. Everything is okay.

* * *

><p><strong>Twyllo<strong>

Hamada cheers, loudly, for Mihashi's throw to home base, and Izumi is _absolutely not_ jealous.

* * *

><p><strong>Falling<strong>

Walking with Tajima, Mihashi's feet fly out from underneath him, and impact with the ground seems certain, except Tosei's number two grabs the back of his jersey, and gently lets him down.

The way Abe's heart hammers, watching Mihashi stand and thinking, _He fell_, he knows that days must be subtracting from the end of his life, for how stressful it all is.

He's _got_ to learn to relax.

* * *

><p><strong>Nerves; Steel and Swift<strong>

Mihashi is _nervous_. Absurdly so; his helmet on, bat in hand, he feels Abe's presence filling up the periphery of his senses. He seems to know exactly where the catcher is in relation to him no matter how he turns, and he strangely dreads having to go past him. It is probably because his at-bat is _so _close, and this could go _so _well if he just doesn't screw up.

And that thought brings him round to his nervousness. Of course. Of course- if he messes things up for everyone at this point, the betrayal of his skills will cut his team-mates that much deeper. Yes, obviously. And Abe… if Abe turns on him, he won't know _what _to do.

He attempts to sneak by, as best as he can while being in plain sight, but Abe can't be fooled, "Listen."

"A-ah…"

"_Listen,_" Abe grabs the bat Mihashi has been carrying, "Don't hit today."

_What? _Mihashi blinks, trying to work it out. Does Abe not trust him? Does the coach want this? Is Abe trying to protect his throwing arm? Is Abe mad? Is it because of how poorly he had done before? Did he _want_ to bat earnestly, or listen to Abe's advice?

_What do I do, what do I do?_ He blinked, looking everywhere, and the blinks helped keep the stress and the reaction the stress might cause at bay. Abe sighed.

"Just… Just kidding, Mihashi! I'll back you up, so go out and hit it!"

"Y-Yes- yes."

Mihashi is at one relieved to leave the dug-out, and at the other desperate to stay near Abe, and to figure out _what _is going on in his head and in Abe's head. But then, he isn't sure he wants to know.

* * *

><p><strong>Pain<strong>

His lower hip screams with sharp hurt for a moment, and his knee buckles, too tired to fight the ache. So that is what it feels like to be hit by a ball at a hundred thirty kilometers an hour. Right. Mihashi isn't sure what to think, his hand reaching behind himself to gently rest above the offended area. There's something a little embarrassing about this-

And then he hears Abe. Through a haze, he hears his name, and he hears pounding feet, and the pain starts fading, swiftly.

It must be because, at least, this part of his body has a _little_ padding, and because, the warmth in his chest is distracting, distracting, distracting.

* * *

><p><strong>Pain<strong>

This must be worth a week; a week off of the end of his life in stress. There are only a few thoughts in his mind while he runs to Mihashi- many of them nonsensical. He's calling Mihashi an idiot, but it's Tosei's pitcher he wants to kill; he's fearful for Mihashi's body, but also just… for Mihashi. He can feel his blood in his throat, pulsing, and in his temples. He's sweating.

And he knows that, this time, he didn't stop himself from running over, so it means that some measure of his self-restraint has been utterly broken down by this pathetic, needful, unlucky pitcher, who is now kneeling on the ground, wincing.

Abe knows he shouldn't be so out of sorts, but where Mihashi is concerned, he just can't seem to _stop. _

* * *

><p><strong>Meditation<strong>

_The field in the morning._

_The haze and the smell of the grass._

_The morning chill in the air. _

_And the birds singing…_

_The warmth of the guy's hand who's sitting next to me - Suyama._

Sakaeguchi felt the pressure lift. He adjusted his grip on the bat, confident.

* * *

><p><strong>Second Point<strong>

Exhilaration carried him to the dug-out, but it was fast failing. Water. Water again… sitting. Mihashi felt light-headed, a little heavy, and no matter how he tried to relax, his breath came fast and shallow into and out of his lungs. He took a deep breath and pulled at his collar, _Should I change my shirt?_

His mind focused and fought with the series of shirt-related thoughts for a long moment, and it left Mihashi feeling somewhat weary. He lowered his elbows to his knees and breathed, more easily now, more deeply, and tried to focus on pitching.

He was in such a hurry to get to the mound, and to forget about the strange heaviness in his mind and body, that he ran right past Abe, without thinking of his catcher's gear at all.

And he didn't know it, but Abe noticed.

* * *

><p><strong>Red - Candy Apple, Cherry, Death<strong>

On the way back to the dug-out, bubbling with happiness over another successful strike-out, Mihashi felt his nose itch. It tingled, ached a little, and he sniffed. Damp- it felt damp. He reached up with the side of his hand, giving his nose an experimental brush; his breath stopped. It really _was _a nosebleed- why- what was- Abe would-

Hanai stopped by him, holding his cap near the pitcher's face, willing to catch the blood and protect the player's uniform. It was running freely, wet and warm, and Mihashi grasped tightly at his nose, so pre-occupied that Hanai had to remind him to just _breathe_.

He didn't, really didn't, want to admit it, but something was wrong.

* * *

><p><strong>Red - Candy Apple, Cherry, Death<strong>

_Mi… hashi…?_

He is so pale. So pale, so pale, so pale. Abe's mind stutters and stops and his heart creeps into his throat. There are no thoughts about the game. They're gone, winged off by worry. He stands, dumb-founded, and stares.

Tajima and Izumi are fanning him; Abe can see Mihashi's short hair ruffle in the combined force of the artificial breeze. A cloth is over his eyes.

Abruptly, a thought of the game trips in- _Our summer is gone- _and it is replaced instantly by guilt. Momoe is talking to him, her voice calm and light and supportive; knowing. His mouth hangs open and he can't seem to draw up his jaw. What's going on- what's going to happen? A nosebleed, dizziness- this game is _hurting_ Mihashi. And why?

_Is Mihashi that determined to win that he'll put his body on the line? That determined not to fail us?_

He walked over, stood, pensive, alongside the bench, and wondered if he should say something. But- why? Abe wasn't sure what had put the notion in his skull, but it seemed that for a moment he felt he should let Mihashi know that he was there, things were okay, and then- then- get him something. Water. Or something. His fists tightened at his sides.

_Is he really all right?_

And a moment later, Mihashi's thin arm reached up and grabbed the cloth from his eyes, the tissue from his nose, and looked- looked right at Abe- and said, softly, happily, "I'm okay!"

Abe didn't know what to do, except stare and wonder. Mihashi was going on, expressing the things that Abe had guessed at before. He was at a loss- this stupid, sweet boy- who he was failing- Somehow, he had to be supportive.

"Okay- I'll be counting on you for the last half of the game!"

It must have been the right thing to say; Mihashi's flushed face went a shade darker, his eyes were wide, and his smile was a barely contained grin. He looked like the sun was rising inside of him. Abe stared, awed.

* * *

><p><strong>Radiance<strong>

Mihashi, arms tight against his body, hands in fists, cheeks red, illuminated and confident and calling, loud, "Get the batter out!"

Abe, surprised, startled, marveling at this unsettlingly ignited creature. A feeling of stunned disbelief, admiration, and affection- sudden, impetuous, pleasant, and true.

* * *

><p><strong>Stertorous<strong>

Mihashi nearly grabs Abe's gear- before remembering that the catcher didn't want him to, to conserve his energy. Still, he's calm enough now to wait, though watching Abe get ready makes his stomach go into a little knot.

Abe straps on his shin guards, glancing at Mihashi, who is fidgeting and avoiding eye contact. He can see hot color along the other boy's neck and cheek, and he can see the way his shoulders and chest move with every breath- quick and troubled. His skin looks damp even from the distance between them.

Concern is a rock in Abe's stomach; and there was guilt, too. _He's getting more and more worn out, trying to keep up with the pace I've set for him. So, in a way, it's all my fault. But what can I do?_

Mihashi's eyes dart toward him, seeking him in Mihashi's periphery, and Abe can see a bead of sweat roll down Mihashi's neck; the pitcher's lips part, breath coming fast but steady.

And Abe doesn't know what to with the concern, and guilt, and the _other_ feeling. He makes his way over to the blonde, thinking, _I want to win_-

-_I want to make him feel good, too-_

"L-Let's… Let's win!" Mihashi gasps, still unable to make eye contact.

And Abe is, not for the first time, pleasantly surprised.

* * *

><p><strong>That Petrol Emotion<strong>

Standing on the mound, Mihashi's memory flashes to Abe- his grey eyes and strong brows and serious face- and his words, _I'm counting on you_- so clearly and in such detail that Mihashi shivers, smiling in spite of himself.

* * *

><p><strong>Breakable<strong>

Abe goes out of his way to see Mihashi on the mound, to make sure his eyes are not deceived. He taps Mihashi on the shoulder, notes the redness of his face, and says, "Nice pitching."

The little, shaky smile that Mihashi gives him is cute and worrying. He jogs away, trying to stay calm. _He's breathing so hard his whole body is shaking._

A tumult of possibilities rush through his mind, but nothing satisfies the worry.

* * *

><p><strong>Slide<strong>

Abe dives for the wild ball, panic springing into his limbs. The image of Mihashi, falling, landing in a peculiar split, burned in his mind. _It's like he attracts danger..._ he's thinking, even while the unlucky play moves along.

Tosei scores their third point.

He's stunned. For a moment, a painful moment, he thinks, _This might be the end._

But more than that, he knows he must check on Mihashi- must make sure he's all right and be sure to placate his guilt, because he _knows_ there will be guilt. As he jogs, he can see Mihashi looking wildly around, feet tapping an erratic dance of panic. It's... charming.

"What's with that face?" Mihashi has covered his face with his hat, looking down. Abe has no idea why it perturbs him so much that Mihashi feels the need to hide from him. "Everyone can see that it was because of the rain. Nobody's blaming you!"

A thought. "Give me your hand."

The result is instantaneous. Mihashi's pale hand reaches for his, palm first, and the pitcher lets the hat drop down. His small hand shakes against Abe's, and he can feel how _cold _it is, in spite of the sweat and exertion. _And he's shaking, too._ A feeling of dread blossoms in Abe's chest, tacky and chill.

Mihashi still isn't making eye contact. Abe's plan falls quickly from his mouth, but even as he speaks, he can see Mihashi become more and more distressed. He looks like he's about to cry, and Abe wonders what on earth his mind is wandering to.

"Hey! Are you listening?" he growls. It's a mistake, somehow, but Sakaeguchi fixes it in that easy, gentle way he has. Mihashi appears to be recovering emotionally, but Abe is more and more afraid of the blonde's physical condition. And he wonders at Sakaeguchi- Yelling? Was he yelling?

* * *

><p><strong>House of Rain and Hail<strong>

Abe had a terrible feeling; a sinking, awkward feeling, as he looked from the field and watched Mihashi disappear into the bunker. The pitcher was lying- he knew, somehow _knew, _and was sure. But why? And to do what? Indecision glowed in his mind, patterning his skull with what-ifs and could-bes and confusion.

But the urge to follow won; he made his way inside. He could hear water running.

Shock. That was the feeling of shock. For a moment, Abe held his breath, mouth open, body frozen. His mind couldn't quite understand what he was seeing- or why he was seeing it. Mihashi was crumpled in front of a shower, clinging to the valve with his head down. _Why...?_

A spike of fear. _This is terrible._

* * *

><p><em>There's something wrong with me.<em>

His legs moved of their own accord. He felt like his head was floating on a string above his shoulders.

_I'm on fire._

Water. He needed more water; the spray was cold, so cold. It felt... wonderful. Wonderful was tiny ice picks leaping at his skin. He shuddered, tried to keep breathing.

_This feels so good._

* * *

><p>Abe knew he had to try and stay calm. That was the most important thing. He strode forward, not trying to sneak up on the other boy. Though he had not made much sound, however, Mihashi seemed to know immediately that he had been found; he floundered against the wall, pawing at the valve in a panic.<p>

"Give me your hand."

Mihashi stalled, eyes wide.

"Your right hand!" Abe growled, snatching at the pitcher and grasping his palm.

Mihashi's eyes were frightened and a little far-away, confused. Surely he understood what was going on; surely he _knew_. But Abe thought, perhaps, maybe Mihashi didn't. There was a way to test.

He took a breath, "Grasp my hand as tightly as you can." _If you can do that much, then we'll be okay... if you can't..._

The pitcher did as he was told, without questions. So he knew. There was something wrong. The pale hand that rested within Abe's trembled and squeezed within his, but there was little force, little strength.

He was putting in so much effort, Abe saw, but he seemed only able to shake and shiver, surreal and dripping wet from the water.

_His grip..._

"But... But I..." Mihashi's eyes were unfocused, filling with tears. He looked like he needed sleep, and sun, and his skin seemed to glow and glisten in the half-light like some lost, ethereal thing that needed to be saved and hidden away and protected. Abe gritted his teeth. He wanted to do something- anything. If this was the end, he would have to live with it. But Mihashi- there was no telling how Mihashi would take it. "I- I can still p-pitch-"

Abe shifted his weight; he wanted to hold the other boy, get ready for the break-down.

And then there were footsteps, loud and clattering, and a voice, "Ren-Ren, there you are!"

"'Ren-Ren'?" Abe murmured, turning to see a young girl in summer clothes panting in the hall. Mihashi said, quietly, wonderingly, "Ruri?" and a sick spark of something unhappy struck Abe square in the chest.

"Guess what?" she cried, "Kanou's won!"

Abe listened, a little confused as she sped on; why... why was she here? What did she need to tell Mihashi that _for_? And then she was gone. Compelled, Abe stood and followed; _Is that... someone he knows from Mihoshi?_

The sick spark of unhappy flickered and receded; Mihashi was walking past him, distracting him from the strangeness in his body and his thoughts. The pitcher looked dazed, and his uniform hung on him strangely, still wet all the way through. Mihashi was heading back to the field, and Abe followed, disconcerted, alienated, and curious inside.

And a little hopeful for the game. A little optimistic.

But the urge to hold Mihashi wouldn't settle down.


	10. Chapter 10

**(KAI) **This chapter covers episodes 21 through 25. Episode 26 will not be covered. Contains all the usual, in varying doses.

* * *

><p><strong>Recover<strong>

Mihashi rung his jersey out, heart beating fast and happy in his chest. He had a good feeling. The bad fire in his body was cooling, the chill of the water and the way Abe had come to help him had eased some of the sick, burning tension; knowing about Kanou helped, too.

Abe was handing him a fresh tee-shirt, voice firm but gentle. There was something pleasant and offbeat about it, as though Abe was thinking of many things, all at once.

"Don't let your shoulders get cold."

Ah- that was a nice thing to think, wasn't it?

* * *

><p><strong>The Apple Seed<strong>

"Suyama...!" Sakaeguchi exhaled, his outcry quiet and a little strangled; he leaned against the railing, trying to compose himself. _That_ had been a peculiar feeling; the quick and shallow jolt that raced up his chest and into his throat.

But the ball had flown _right for_ his best friend's face. Of course he was startled. And thank goodness it had missed, clearing the space in front of Suyama's nose with inches to spare. A walk wasn't worth Suyama getting hurt.

Definitely not.

* * *

><p><strong>Mnemosyne<br>**

Izumi dropped his head for a moment, taking a deep breath. Looking at Mihashi and Abe, standing together in the dug-out, he feels transported, suddenly and without his permission, to _that_ time. Two years ago. Two long, sick years ago. When Hamada-

He takes a deep breath. Now is not the time for remembering.

* * *

><p><strong>Acid<strong>

In the stands, Hamada begins a cheer for Tajima. It is loud, energetic, and it sounds right.

And Izumi is absolutely, completely, not _even a little bit_ jealous. Not at all.

* * *

><p><strong>Letterman<strong>

Mihashi sits and waits for his at-bat; the rain is letting up and he feels relatively at peace. He feels safe and warm and can feel, somehow very well _feel_, Abe's eyes on his back, and it doesn't make him nervous. He tugs Abe's coat tighter down on his shoulders, catches a smell- _kashmir, cinnamon- _and breathes.

Just breathes.

* * *

><p><strong>Fail, Succeed<strong>

Mihashi is cute, trying to cheer him up, but there's a pit in his stomach. It makes him feel heavy and a little sick; he's desperate for that win. Tajima looks at Mihashi with the full force of that need, and it seems to terrify the blonde. He blinks.

But then Hanai's voice; firm and cajoling.

Hanai and Sakaeguchi and even Izumi; but it's the look in Hanai's eyes that makes him stop, makes him warm.

Makes him _wonder. _

* * *

><p><strong>Dash<strong>

The batter's aim is straight and true; he goes from a bunt to a hit and the ball flies straight.

Straight for Mihashi.

Abe's shout; "Watch out!"

The jar of impending impact; but none. Mihashi's reflexes turn a broken nose into a _thump_ against his cheek bone, and the ball drops.

Relief. Mihashi's panicked search for the ball.

It seems as though it takes forever for the ball to make it home, but it does, and Abe's block against the runner is successful.

Abe grits his teeth; a feeling of excessive stress flooding his bones. He drops the ball and calls a time-out, and hardly a moment passes before he's sprinting to Mihashi, furious. He grabs the pitcher by the jersey front, shakes, shouts.

But it isn't only the barely blocked run that has him agitated.

It's worse when Tajima translates Mihashi's tearful expressions; the very idea that the blonde had been scared for Abe's own safety was infuriating, painful- and made him feel special. He didn't know how to deal; he grabbed Mihashi again, stress guiding his motions. He had to get it into Mihashi's head- and out of his own, somehow.

Nothing makes sense. He finishes yelling. Tries to get his temper under control. He stomps away from Mihashi's sweetness and tears and remembers that this game could be their last if they aren't careful. It's the damn_ eighth _already.

Still-

Why doesn't anything make _sense_ anymore?

* * *

><p><strong>Apologize<strong>

His gear hit the bench with a clatter; the sound did little to ease the tension in his chest. Abe took a deep breath and called, "Mihashi."

Holding Tosei at one run had helped, but a mild and unbeatable guilt had taken root in him, and he knew it had been the tears and the care for his own well-being that had put it there. He had to tell Mihashi he was sorry, for both Mihashi's sake and the sake of the game. His heart thumped, sharp, against his ribs.

"I wasn't really mad before, so don't freak out like that," he approached the cowering Mihashi with his voice set at a low level. It was so _easy_ to lose his cool around the guy. No one had been such an itch in his mind since Haruna, and _that_ had been entirely different.

Mostly.

_Oh, God_.

But there wasn't time to think on it- and Abe hoped there _never_ was, because he could not, could not, could not, handle it. Mihashi cowered more deeply behind Tajima, and that set off a nerve in his skull. He made a grab and pulled Mihashi nearer, intoning, loud, "I'm telling you I'm not mad!"

He really wasn't.

It was something else.

* * *

><p><strong>Lion<strong>

Mihashi stared, eyes absorbing more detail than he thought necessary. Everything was in sharp relief around Abe; dark and wet and real. The catcher had approached the plate with a determined stride; his legs lean and sure. His hands clenched around the bat- something clenching in Mihashi's chest. A deep, inaccessible feeling.

And then Abe roared. _Roared._

The pitcher gripped the railing, unable to look away. A small, breathless sound had tripped up, out of his throat and past his teeth.

Had he ever seen something as amazing as this? Anything more magnificent?

Had anything ever taken away his breath like this?

He moved his right hand, his pitching hand, up, and grasped the front of his jersey. If his heartbeat, frantic and wild and heavy, was any indication, then no, no he had not.

_Abe was amazing. _

* * *

><p><strong>Flutter<strong>

Abe seemed to fly over first, his foot stamping the base and his body light in the air. As he fell and slid to the ground, Mihashi's chest went tight, went a little sick with fear. Abe had to be careful- he couldn't get hurt-

But he was okay. He was strong and sturdy and he was... so excited to have made it to first.

_His eyes,_ Mihashi thought, watching Abe's hand form a fist as he shouted in victory.

_They're so intense. _

* * *

><p><strong>Runaway<strong>

Hamada couldn't help himself; he grabbed the links of the protective fence and hollered, "Nice, Izumi!"

He had to. It was his job, after all. And Izumi had done a phenomenal job; he had pushed Abe forward _and_ taken a base. He was amazing. And he was so close. Only so many meters away. If he could have, Hamada would have rushed onto the field and shown Izumi _exactly_ how excited for the play he was.

A flash. _Warm hands, lingering. Leaning over a smaller frame; pushing, touching. Sweat. _

Hamada flushed, letting out a strangled sound of embarrassment before turning his face up into the rain. Now was _entirely_ the wrong time to be reminiscing.

But it would have been nice.

* * *

><p><strong>Pressure in, Pressure out<strong>

Suyama had to help; he knew what Sakaeguchi was thinking, and what he needed to hear. And he wanted the game as much as anybody; and he wondered, would Sakaeguchi ever realize how well he knew him? How easy he was for Suyama to read? How highly he was thought of? And how much he was wanted?

Suyama kept his teeth tight together to keep from blurting out what Sakaeguchi didn't need to hear on the field, during this game, or _ever_ if Suyama decided to keep it all a secret.

Sakaeguchi jogged over, face expectant and colored with chagrin. It was cute, and it made Suyama feel bold; speaking low, he pulled the smaller boy under his arm. His quiet tone made Sakaeguchi lean close to hear, and he didn't seem shy about leaning into the taller player. Having nothing more to say without embarrassing himself, he turned and jogged away- not before giving Yuuto's shoulder a careful squeeze.

And then- Yuuto's voice, nervous and calling him back. The other boy pulled off his glove and dropped the bat, stuttering and flushed and more gorgeous than Suyama could bear. And then Sakaeguchi grabbed his hand, the warmth and dampness of his smaller hand perfect and pliant and sweet to have. The smaller seemed frozen, unable to go on, and Shoji was uncertain if Yuuto even knew what he wanted; the tension rose and Suyama gripped the other boy's hand tightly.

He would be kind. "You can do it!"

And the way that Sakaeguchi gasped, the way he shivered- Suyama knew that was all he would ever need.

* * *

><p><strong>Pressure in, Pressure out<strong>

Sakaeguchi didn't know what possessed him. But this was Suyama and Suyama was his best friend, and frankly, he was the greatest comfort he knew. The only friend he had ever felt so comfortable around. The only friend that had well and truly _been_ there for him, listened to him and given him advice, who had shared his futon without an complaint or trace of awkwardness.

Whose smile could be so warm sometimes.

He pulled off one of his gloves- dropped the bat- stuttered. How was it that gentle, careful, kind _Suyama_ could make him so _nervous _sometimes? But he knew what he wanted to do, what he wanted to say; he just had to get past this anxiety.

But Shoji beat him to it; he pulled Yuuto's hand up, squeezed it tight and said, loud and supportive, "You can do it!"

And the strange, elastic feeling in Sakaeguchi's chest snapped and resonated. He shivered, squeezing back. Suyama _was_ special, somehow, so _very, very_ special.

And that had to mean something.

* * *

><p><strong>A Father<strong>

Seeing Shiga clap and hold Shinooka's hands is one of the sweetest things Momoe has ever seen; on top of the elation caused by Tajima's hit and the two subsequent runs, she isn't sure her feelings of joy and promise can be contained. She can see into the future; it is bright and warm and perfect. For a moment, Maria makes eye contact with Shiga, and he smiles. Just... _smiles. _

And everything makes sense.

* * *

><p><strong>Fired Up<strong>

From the coach's box, Tajima calls out to Hanai. He's excited, encouraging. Hanai can see, in a strange light, how the rain slides against the other player's skin. For whatever reason,

But it puts fire in his blood, Tajima's support, and he grips the bat with renewed energy.

This game is _theirs. _

* * *

><p><strong>New Parts<strong>

Abe watched as Mihashi shook. It was only a moment of his time. A short, highly consolidated slice of his life spent focusing on the reeling lines of Mihashi's small, pale frame. He was like a wind-up toy, waiting to be released. Even at a distance, Abe could see the redness of the other boy's flushed cheeks, like the painted circles on a child's plaything. It was almost over. A feeling of tense, wary hopefulness was alive and tight in his chest, and it pushed against his ribs as he tossed the ball to his pitcher.

A series of interesting expressions flickered across Mihashi's face, all of them making the tightness in Abe's chest feel like a band- a rubber band, pulled and looped and un-releasable.

* * *

><p><strong>Frustrated Over<strong>

Mihashi pitched, unsure. He had a _feeling_ that the fastballs might not be a good idea, or rather, that something was just going to go wrong. Abe caught it, but the _look _on his face made Mihashi want to crawl into the ground and never come out.

Abe was _mad_. His eyes were narrowed and dark and when he threw the ball back, he threw it _hard._

It made his knees want to knock; he spun away, trying to compose himself.

It was as though Abe had read his mind, reaching and pulling the thoughts from his mind and branding them unacceptable. It was a terrifying thing. He didn't want Abe to _be_ mad at him. Ever. Ever, ever.

And Mihashi knew there was something important to that, too. Middle school had been- it had been- somehow so awful. His fastballs were _always_ hit. Surprising him, Abe threw him the sign for a screwball, toward the outside. Abe was _always_ somehow surprising him. Even if he lost his temper, or even if Tajima or Sakaeguchi had to step in a make things make sense, Abe could, without seeming to try, just reach into his mind and understand his thoughts and feelings.

It was intense. Welcome and strange and oddly uplifting. Mihashi threw.

* * *

><p><strong>Unpredictable Advantages<strong>

Maybe he had made a mistake. Abe gritted his teeth, his heart thumping with massive, wasteful energy as he watched Mihashi pick himself up off the ground. He was _so_ fragile. These little setbacks and small mistakes always broke his will, somehow. Always threw Mihashi off balance and well-being. It was _so _frustrating; and it was more than that. It was an uphill fight that always found Abe back at the bottom of the mountain of Mihashi's low self-esteem and inability to cope with failure and pressure.

There had to be a better way. There had to be a way to _fix_ things. He strode forward a handful of steps before he stopped himself. Halfway into his stride, his plan had changed, without his permission-

_-get down there and grab him, shake him, make him see-_

-without sense or meaning. His heart rocketed into his throat and he rooted himself to the ground where he stood, forcing himself to swallow it down. Instead, he shouted. It was safe. It usually worked.

Though sometimes it made his insides hurt when he did.

His back up plan, however, seems to be working. Mihashi is simple, he's easy to trick. Naivete, sweetness, and a bendable mind... such things in a fragile person like Mihashi.

Abe wondered if he was still taking care of the pitcher at all, anymore.

* * *

><p><strong>Ragged Edge<strong>

Mihashi's heart was in a panic. _I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared. _

For the first time in a long time, Abe seemed very far away, as though he had left altogether, and an imposter shaped like Abe had crouched in his place.

How could he suggest that? Would he really...? _I'm so scared, I'm so scared._

The pitcher wavered and breathed, and the other side of his mind began to hiss and crackle into life. He didn't _want _to leave the mound. Not at all. Never. And Abe hadn't told him to- it was still his own choice. He gripped the ball, appreciating the familiar pattern of stitches on the ball's battered, dirty surface.

No matter how bad it got- no matter how his heart strained or his mind raced- this unbending part of himself, so difficult to access, would always win out. Let it rain, or burn, or let the team be professionals of the highest order- he still wanted to pitch.

And despite everything, he still wanted to pitch to Abe.

* * *

><p><strong>Cementing<strong>

The fastball connects, flies upward. Mihashi's focus is intent and almost wild; he sees Abe dive for it, but the arc is full and fat and falls neatly away, past his catcher's grasp. Abe curses, slams his fist once into the wet dirt.

_My fastball isn't fast enough- he's mad- _ Panic explodes across Mihashi's skin, because he screwed up, _bad_, and now Abe is coming, coming to berate him, to force him to switch to-

"Sorry," Abe stops a few feet away, throws the ball with an earnestly apologetic look in his dark eyes. He's not close enough to _really_ see, but Mihashi knows they're grey. Cloudy, dark grey.

_He's... not mad. _

Blooming warmth, deep in Mihashi's chest.

And then... _no one_ is mad. Everyone is yelling their support, and the ball- it gets hit, but Izumi catches it, and when it reaches Hanai, his throw is _so_ true, and Abe keeps the runner from scoring the game-changing run.

They win.

They win, and Mihashi is happy. He stands by Abe and thanks the cheering squad. Everything is perfect. Cemented, together.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank You<strong>

Izumi flushes, hot even in the rain. Hamada is looking _right at him_. Into his eyes. His words are for the team, they really are, but his eyes- foolishly filling with tears- are for Izumi alone. Hamada's voice wavers, full of that over-emotional quality that Izumi _knows_ that he can't stand, yet he swallows, wavers himself, and can't look away.

It's happening again. He can't stop it.

* * *

><p><strong>Relief Next to Me<strong>

He hadn't imagined it. Mihashi had been keyed up, running on fumes, desperate and brilliant; loud, bold, a little brash, still so fragile and strange, and it was most likely his ability that had driven them to the win.

Abe was proud- intensely proud. The worry was waning, and he wasn't so surprised that the blonde had fallen asleep. It was another funny, weirdly cute aspect the other boy's personality, and it made sense.

He wondered if Mihashi could fall asleep _anywhere_, and he wondered what that kind of line of thinking meant. He wondered what it meant that he wanted to scoop the pitcher up and carry him away, so that he could personally keep an eye on him until he was _sure_ Mihashi was really okay.

He wondered if it wasn't all a dream. But he was happy. This was the first of what he was certain would be many more wins. They could do it with Mihashi, he knew.

He could do it.

But, when he and Tajima had to carry him to the car, he couldn't quite bring himself to _look_ at the pitcher. The way he hung, limp, and the way his hip brushed Abe's, that was too much, and he knew that if he looked... something... would happen. Something... something, but he wasn't sure what.

* * *

><p><strong>Unrelenting Uncertainty<strong>

Abe sees Izumi up ahead, hails him- for a moment, he contemplates the other boy's freckles, his dark eyes, and knows that it does not stir him. It has come to this- to evaluations and troubling introspection. Since watching Mihashi disappear into his mother's car, the strange need to keep an eye on him, to be perpetually near, had not abated at all, as he thought it would with their first win.

It is most disconcerting. And the situation has implications he is neither ready nor willing to contemplate. Instead, he investigates other angles, hardly aware of his own desperation.

He immediately tells Izumi about his planned trip to Mihashi's. Was there a reason for it? ...No. And the fact that Hanai is accompanying him does not help.

And there is, of course, no reason for the ire to rise, deep in his belly, when Tajima shows up, intent on coming, too. No reason for the possessiveness, and no reason for the strange, quiet guilt that has begun to grow in his belly. Guilt... and maybe...

Jealousy?

* * *

><p><strong>This, Too<strong>

He doesn't even know _why_ he wants to know. What does it matter what Tajima or Izumi discuss with Mihashi? As long as Mihashi is eating, sleeping, and working hard, that's all the team needs.

_That's all I need,_ Abe reasons with himself, lying.

* * *

><p><strong>So Cool<strong>

Izumi hasn't seen Hamada in an intensive way in so long- hasn't seen him running, working, sweating-

Sweating.

Oh, god.

He watches in awe as Hamada controls the basketball court, keeping the ball close and dribbling fast; he hardly seems human, so unusually focused is he. His hair shines. His skin is flushed. For the first time in a long time, Izumi _remembers_ the feeling, because the feeling resurfaces for a moment, strong and vibrant and bright, and he can't help but wonder-

Is he really still afraid? Will it happen again, all of it?

Will he mind if it does?

Hamada scores, and Izumi wonders.

* * *

><p><strong>Maybe, Maybe<strong>

_Could it be... That Mihashi hates me?_

* * *

><p><strong>It's the Fear<strong>

Mihashi doesn't rightly know why he can't respond to Abe's texts, why his printed words throw him into a nervous fit; he remembers the harshness of his catcher's insistent suggestion, S_witch if you can't pitch, _but he knows, deeply inside, that there's more. There has to be more to why his heart beats so frantically, to why his skin feels like it's too tight for his bones, and why he can't seem to stop shaking when he remembers the game- remembers the water and the rain and the way Abe looked while he sat on the floor of the showers and fell apart-

And why he thinks, frantically sometimes, that he'd give anything to go back to that moment and see what could've happened next.

* * *

><p><strong>Catcher<strong>

Mihashi is _so _pale. Nearly as pale as he had been during the game against Tosei. It makes Abe's stomach knot. There has to be more, more that he can do to take care of this boy. Keep his strength up, keep him healthy _and happy_ and able and pitching his best-

_And happy-_

Abe swallows it down, "You look pretty sick."

"Not really..." Mihashi flushes, looking away and bringing one hand up to toy with the hem of his shirt. It's... alluring. Abe's focus can't retreat. He can't believe himself. Is that how it feels? Is this it...?

Tajima's voice cuts through the fog of terror and beauty in Abe's mind, and it additionally sends Mihashi into a weakness, the blonde's knees buckling as he swayed in dismay. Abe almost catches him, reaches out, and would have... if Mihashi had fallen, he would have.

Without hesitation, he is Mihashi's catcher.

* * *

><p><strong>To Understand<strong>

He is so, so _desperately _concerned when Mihashi ends his sentence with 'kilograms.' The pitcher has _lost _ three kilograms... _three _godforsaken _kilograms_, and now he's tired, weak, and sick. Abe certainly has failed. And he sees it most evidently when the abject worry screaming through his head and out of his mouth translates into a loud, heated anger that makes Mihashi cringe and cower and wail.

That's not... That's not what he wants. He slows down. Thinks. Mihashi's tears stir him to stillness; they remind him of Mihashi's weakness, his stature and build and metabolism and how he ran on fumes to keep himself together for the game.

And he feels that pang of guilt grow and grow, realizing, _It's because I yell at him... and act like this... that he... hates... _

_That he hates me._

It's no good. They have to be a functioning battery. He takes a deep breath and begins again, hoping to make things right, even if just a little.

Mihashi stops shaking and peers up, his honey-colored eyes wide and fearful and confused, but warming. He looks so small; his clothes hang on him, and his limbs bend so easily, so that he seems to fold and disappear and become as tiny as he must feel. _Guilt. _

Abe feels the stress eat at him; the admission that Mihashi is so sweet and hateless giving his fiery ire a dousing of chill, watery reason. It isn't in Mihashi to hate... he is kind and gentle and a little silly... Abe glowers, his mind running six directions at once. Watching Mihashi, it is impossible to understand anything- anything at all.

* * *

><p><strong>Hunger<strong>

It is peculiar, but nice, to spend the afternoon with his team-mates. But it isn't his team-mates that Hanai is focused on. Tajima, with his loudness and brashness and flashing charisma and bright smile- there is so much here that Hanai can't seem to look away from. He eats his curry happily enough, but there is a growing feeling of disquiet while he casually keeps an eye on the clean-up hitter.

It's a disquiet he is sure is no good for him; as the captain, he has to stay upright and careful, and Tajima's aura is something he doesn't have the time to get sucked in to.

Though he senses he might want to be.

* * *

><p><strong>Sweet Lies<strong>

Mihashi lies to himself. He is unaware, but they come swiftly and naturally to him. He believes in his ineptitude, and he believes in his failings. He believes that his team-mates loathe him, that he is friendless.

He apologizes. But then- Abe, Abe who terrifies and inspires him and makes his insides too warm and his mouth dry and his head rush- Abe lies.

Rather, he admits to have lied. Mihashi's heart stutters and stalls and he tries to work out what this all means- Abe hadn't been serious out there? Hadn't _really_ expected Mihashi to switch?

Hadn't been mad?

He doesn't know what to say. "I-I'm sorry."

"Never mind that. Never hesitate to throw to home again; my feelings get hurt, too, you know," Abe is stoic, calm while he eats. He isn't... he isn't lying.

Mihashi glows with this revelation, with this insight and access to Abe's nature. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, face hot.

The glow fades when Abe realizes Mihashi _had_ seen his texts and _hadn't _replied, but it's a kind of henpecking that makes Mihashi nervous and _cared for_ rather than really hurt. It's a sweet kind of lying; of mixed messaging and closeness. He whimpers and shakes, but really can't wait to stretch, can't wait to have Abe's attention.

Tajima suggests a massage, and it makes Mihashi weak in his knees. He is instantly, intensely, grateful to already be sitting. But Abe won't, and his voice is a little choked, a little nervous.

Mihashi lies to himself. He assumes he isn't worth it, isn't capable of receiving that kind of contact and attention from Abe. But Abe's cough does not mean what Mihashi thinks it means- not even remotely.

And when Abe gets close, when he finally puts his hands against Mihashi's back, their lies falter. For a moment, they flicker and fade.

* * *

><p><strong>Absolute Beginners<strong>

Later, Mihashi waves from his porch, happy and full and content. He waves until everyone is nearly out of sight- until Abe pauses and looks back at him, their eyes meeting.

His wave stutters and stills. His mouth is dry. Abe's gaze... It's level and cool, searching. He can't look away for the moment his catcher holds his focus.

And then Abe's temples and cheeks go dusky with color, and he vanishes.

Only then does Mihashi remember to breathe.


	11. Off Season: Chapter 11

**(KAI) **Some filler for the interim. I was initially concerned, but these scenes don't seem to interfere/conflict with the flow of season two.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Nightmare<strong>

Mihashi remembers, sometimes, when he least wants to, a feeling from long ago. The stands surround them, and the faces- distorted now- watch him from every angle. He can feel his skin, pulled tight with nerves, bead with sweat, and the catcher seems far away, unreachable. He gulps, shakes, does not know what to do. The eyes watch him, waiting. He knows during this feeling, that the world is waiting for him to fail, and that he will. Every time, he does. He hears the _crack_, like a bone breaking, and that's when he wakes up, panting, gasping, sometimes shouting. But it is only a feeling, being drug away from him. Old now, a scar.

It happens again one night, the pain fresh and terrifying because this time, _this time, _there are differences. Colors have changed, faces have taken on clarity; the familiar scene is warped, more terrifying now because it is not the past he is reliving, it is a potential, ugly future.

He sits up in bed, shaking, shaking. He knows, deeply somewhere in his heart, that his would _never_ come to pass, this dream. But it is difficult to convince his wild, racing brain that his Nishiura team-mates- his _friends- _would never turn on him, never like the boys at Mihoshi. He pulls and twists the blankets until they're around his shoulders, and the shaking begins to level off. He can never get back to sleep after these dreams, not immediately.

_Oh, _he remembers, easing his hands into his lap. _The meditation. _

Five minutes pass, and he breathes. Breathes in, out, in, out, and he can feel his nerves and muscles releasing their tension. Until a vicious remark repeats itself in Mihashi's brain, _Thank god he's leaving, _but in Tajima's light-hearted snigger, and a shiver catapults its way up his spine, leaving him shaking as hard as he was when he'd bolted awake.

He knows he has to do something, anything, to relax. Abe would get mad at him if he doesn't get enough sleep. Abe. Abe might know what to do. He reaches out in the partial dark for his phone, and has scrolled through his meager contact list to _Abe Takaya _before he realizes what he is planning to do. _No way_, he blunders in his mind, _I wouldn't just… call Abe in the middle of the night. Why did I…?_

It is impossible to say what possessed him, what manic impulse made him think to bother Abe with his ridiculous problem. He already knows what Abe would say. The phone is still in his hands as he flops onto his side, blankets a warm cocoon around him, still open and glowing with Abe's name highlighted. Abe would say, "What are you calling me for? It's three in the morning. You should be asleep. And don't think about eating a snack while you're awake because your metabolism won't process it correctly while you're sleeping."

Then Mihashi would try to explain the awful dream, but even as he imagines this, the dream seems stupid and far-away, ridiculous and impossible. He yawns. Abe would interrupt him and say, "Don't be absurd, we're a team. You don't have anything to worry about."

And then Mihashi would try to say thank you, but Abe would already be saying "Now go back to sleep," and he would hang up. The constructed conversation makes Mihashi flail; what if Abe is mad at him? He shouldn't have called! But, re-focusing on his phone, he realizes that he had begun to doze off, begun to dream, and he… laughs. Just a little bit.

Abe's name is still high-lighted, and it is the last thing Mihashi sees before falling again, deeply, to sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>It Changes<strong>

The field. A warm sun, no breeze.

Abe can't quite pin the time down- that moment between using Mihashi and being used by Mihashi. Except, Mihashi isn't really using him, is he? No. Mihashi follows him, worships him, adores him, blindly accepts him, but he's not using Abe. So what is it?

At some point, Mihashi ceased to be simply a tool, a means to a win. But then, what was he? They still needed him to pitch; Hanai and Oki… they weren't going to be able to replace the blonde. Not even a little bit. So he really was still a tool.

The idea made bile rise in the back of Abe's throat. _No_, he thought, _I don't like to think of him that way. _

He watched Mihashi pull of his cap and shake out his hair. The pitcher was laughing at something Suyama was saying; Mihashi's hat went back on, and they resumed tossing a ball between each other and Sakaeguchi. Abe went back to maintaining his catcher's glove, carefully working with a rag and leather conditioner. It brought him a kind of peace, and let his mind be at ease. He didn't notice it, staring into the grooves of the warm, black mitt, but his next thought was, _Mihashi has a nice laugh._


	12. Chapter 12

**(KAI) **This is a special treat. It's a companion to 'Mnemosyne,' from chapter ten: The history between Izumi and Hamada.  
>Mature content.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Two Years Ago<strong>

_From December_

This guy, he's getting on Izumi Kosuke's nerves. He's tall and loud and brash, and he's... other things. Things that make Izumi uncomfortable. He's an early-bloomer at fourteen; blonde hair wild and wind-mussed and shoulders broad beneath the sun. His legs look strong. He can pitch and he can hit and he's got a smile that matches every ounce of passion he musters for every practice.

He's nothing like Izumi. Izumi is small and serious and reserved; his hair is dark and he scowls, but he loves baseball, too, so there's something. It's a little thing.

Little things. Like the way Hamada Yoshiro laughs. The way he grips a ball, or holds a bat, or kneels in the dirt, face turned toward the sky. Izumi is certain he hates this guy.

* * *

><p>Two long months; a small tournament, a small win, a small loss. Everything is on an even keel; he likes his team-mates, school is all right. He has friends; his birthday was a couple months ago, and it feels good to be thirteen. He feels older. Izumi can feel all the requisite changes- has since he was eleven- but now it's different. He's part of something now. There is a feeling, however, that darkens his moods.<p>

* * *

><p>His body catches on before he does. It's not the first time he's touched himself, released against the wall of the shower and sighed. But it <em>is <em>the first time there was a _face_ in his mind; the first time his actions had a clear focus of _intent_. Blonde hair, strong shoulders. Kneeling on the bathroom floor, Izumi aims the spray of water into his face and stops breathing for a moment; it's not fair.

* * *

><p>Sometimes he's distracted during practice; painfully, angrily. Hamada gets close to him, smiles, and he wants to throw things. Sometimes, he does. After batting, he'll swing hard enough that the bat flies while he runs, and when it hits the ground, the sound is <em>loud<em>.

But it doesn't cover up the sound of Hamada cheering, or saying his name.

* * *

><p>It's February. It's been odd this season- sometimes dry, sometimes wet. Kosuke is in his room, alone and angry. He's been crying. He hates it, but he hadn't been able to stop for the last hour. The awful feeling in his stomach hadn't gone away, even though he'd wanted- <em>so much- <em>for it to vanish and never come back.

"Why me, why me...?" he murmurs, picking himself up from his bed and its damp pillows; he looks around. There are baseball magazines, gum wrappers, books and papers, and clothes strewn about, nothing out of the ordinary. There are no signs that he can see, no red flags or warnings. There is a band poster on one wall, a little league participation trophy, a drawing he'd done when he was five, found in his mother's collected things.

Nothing seems to say, _I'm different. I'm not like the other boys. _

So why him?

* * *

><p>It wouldn't be so bad except Hamada is <em>always <em>nearby. And if it's not Hamada, Izumi _thinks_ it is. How many times, really, has he been out and about in the city, seeing some tall, broad-shouldered blonde- his heart beat suddenly mangled? It isn't fair.

He stares at the girls as they go by, tries- sincerely, earnestly- to enjoy them; their softness, their faces, their curves- but his insides are unresponsive, and his mind wanders. And if he sees that kind of man, a man as handsome as Hamada, he feels hot and ashamed and scared.

And so when Hamada tries to be friendly with him at practice, he's venomous and defensive, terrified, thinking always, _Does he know? Does he know? Does he know?_

* * *

><p>Weeks go by. There's tension and Izumi <em>knows<em> he's about to snap. One way or the other; his sex drive is way, _way_ up, and his mind will not be swayed from the fantasy of someone tall and strong and blonde. He takes a hot shower every day after practice; he eats dinner and pretends to be too tired to have lengthy conversations with his parents. They accept it. Izumi has always been a little serious, and as long as he keeps eating healthy and keeps up his grades, they have no worries.

Izumi worries all the time.

* * *

><p>Hamada is making him nervous. The practice game is over, the team is showering down, leaving for the evening. The blonde has been <em>so<em> friendly, taking Izumi's curtness with grains of salt and heady, reverberating laughter. Dressed from his shower, hair dripping, the boy sits, heavy and tired, on a bench and lets his head drop forward. The pull in his neck is wonderful, relaxing, and Izumi feels the tension easing out of his shoulders.

Until he feels hands. The tension leaps back into his muscles and he startles, wild, before the hands clamp more tightly on his sore trapezius muscles. He lets out a small gasp and catches his breath because he _knows_, he absolutely _knows_ whose hands these are. They're broad and warm and strong, and the smell of clean soap is fresh on them; Hamada's hands, kneading, firmly, into his shoulders.

"Just relax, geez," the blonde laughs, squeezing.

Izumi tries to roll his shoulder away, to shake Hamada off, but the effort is weak, the intent unclear. "Don't-" he growls, but Hamada only hums and _digs_ in his thumbs, right into the good spots, and Izumi can't help but groan and go limp, hardly able to keep upright.

He doesn't know it, but Hamada is smiling, eyes dark. He is absorbing the scene, frantic to pull the punch of contact before he loses control; Izumi's back, the lines that lead to his neck, tee shirt bunched and pressed around his arms. Yoshiro holds his breath, running his fingers along Izumi's damp scalp before trailing over his shoulder, down his arms. This is the greatest, because the skin is laid bare, still warm from water, pliant.

When Izumi lets out a brief, strangled groan, low and quiet in his throat, Hamada retreats. He lets his hands brush over the small boy's shoulders one more time before clapping them down, companionably.

"Well, see you tomorrow!" he chirps, slinging his pack over his back and jogging from the clubhouse.

Izumi bites his lip. His knees are suddenly pressed together, so tightly he's shaking. His breath is labored, arousal heavy and hot and needful- inescapable and shameful.

He knows he wants more and he _hates _himself for it.

* * *

><p>The rest of the week is tortuously slow. Hamada isn't paying him much mind, focusing on baseball and the team and school and whatever else it is that keeps him occupied. Izumi is pissed. It's all he can think about, ever, that stretch of time in the clubhouse, with Hamada's hands nearly, <em>nearly<em>, roaming his skin.

He bites the end of his pencil, furious and unable to concentrate on algebra. _Find the 'x,' _he thinks angrily to himself, _Fuck._

What bothers him the most is how _bothered_ he is that Hamada is finally leaving him _alone_. The excessive attention and friendliness has abruptly petered out to the merest of salutations at practice- and Izumi doesn't understand why. But he _hates _it.

* * *

><p>At the end of March, Izumi erupts. He simply snaps. After practice, still sweaty and sticky and red-faced, he corners Hamada by the lockers, fists clenched. Their team-mates sense a fight brewing- they scatter, the captain nervously locking the door from the outside and reminding 'any stragglers' to turn the pin on their way out.<p>

Sometimes, everyone knows, it's best to just fight it out.

"What is _with you?_" Izumi hisses, struggling to keep his eyes on Hamada's surprised face, and not his exposed, slick torso. Hamada shakes his hair, pulls the sleeves of his undershirt away from his forearms, and Izumi can't help but glance over. He knows he's flushing.

Hamada frowns, an unusual expression for his generally bright face, "What?"

_What? What? _Izumi wants to scream. _What_ is how Hamada has been treating Kozue lately; his kind looks and helpful hands on _Kozue's _bat and _Kozue's_ swing. A long moment goes by, and despite the force and meaning in his thoughts, Izumi can only sputter, "I mean- what- what do you _want?_"

A sigh. The image of Hamada slowly leaning backward, against the wall, with his hips forward and his thumbs hooked in his uniform's belt loops. Izumi _hates_ him for making him feel the way he does. For putting heat in his body and confusion in his heart and anger in his head. Hates him for _making _him different. He wants to punch him in the face; but that face is so pensive, so far away, that Izumi's fists relax and with that concession, he can only drop to the nearest bench, hands cradling his forehead.

Hamada watches. This will be his last chance to turn away, to _run_ away. From this moment, he will wonder for the next two and half years if he did the wrong or the right thing.

The younger boy is breathing heavily, embarrassment and fury competing in his throat for the right to scream or cry. A shuffling, cleats in front of him, incredibly close. He startles, gaze shooting up- it follows a natural path along Hamada's thighs, firm in the striped uniform, his hard abdomen, damp chest and shoulders and neck, and to his serious- strangely, queerly serious- face. For the first time, Izumi has disquieting understanding of how _big_ and surely _strong_ Hamada is. His heart clenches, fearful.

"I guess I want... you," the blonde intones, voice seeming to dare Izumi to rebel, to give reproach.

But Izumi can't do anything of the sort, because he can't now even breathe. His breath is trapped, completely trapped, in his throat, unable to pass his lips. Yoshiro glances around, but knows already that the clubhouse has been long deserted. He drops carefully to his knees, grasping Izumi by the shoulders as he does.

"Say something. Say anything."

But Kosuke can't, he just can't. He lets out a gasp, strangled and small and pathetic. He had deluded himself into thinking that _good_ would come of this. That some sort of closure would arrive if he finally just _confronted _the problem. Deep down, though, he had known. And he hadn't prepared. He'd gone through with his ridiculous plan, and now here they were.

He licked his lips. Deep down, he knew. He'd _wanted_ this.

And then Yoshiro is crashing their lips together, broking no argument. Instinctively, as if he is being attacked, Kosuke's arms go out, pushing insistently at Hamada's chest. Nothing changes; Hamada is stronger, and whether Izumi was ready or not, he's given the older boy control of the situation. His arms get trapped between them; Hamada is pulling him closer, tightly, against his chest. A hot blur; Yoshiro's mouth working against his, insistent.

It takes little time or effort on his part to break Izumi down; soon, the smaller boy seems to have dropped any pretense of protecting himself. His little hands go up, wrap around Hamada's neck, and he kisses back without a hint of restraint, tongue and mouth hot within and around Yoshiro's.

He pulls Izumi against himself, selfish and shocked and unwilling to lose this chance to get what he's wanted since he first saw the younger boy; lithe and small and tough, and hilariously sullen and cold. A kind of challenge; a kind of sickness. He pulls his prize upward, manhandling him toward a wall. Izumi pants and gasps and makes the most gorgeous noises Hamada has ever heard; more delicious than any pornography or fantasy he's built from the sounds Izumi might make during practice. He pulls and tugs and nearly _rips_ the uniform and undershirt off of the dark-haired boy's chest; it's beautiful, freckled and pale and sweating.

"_Yes,"_ he groans, dragging a hand against Kosuke's ribs, down to his slender hip.

Sensory overload; Izumi's head is spinning, heart pounding. He can't possibly deny how good this all is, how the tension has risen and strained between them, only to amount to _this. _The wall is cool against his back, and Hamada is crowding him with his body- large and golden and furnace-like. He moans, pressing into the fingers stroking his nipple. There is _so much_ heat. It's everywhere, like fire, on his skin and in his body, deep and tingling in his lower half, concentrated without mercy between his legs. Kosuke reaches out, finds Hamada's hips, and drags them close, wanting to _do _something with this feeling.

Hamada seems to know, seems to oblige. He rolls his hips, fast and heavy, and Kosuke shouts, one of his legs jerking upward, wrapping around the older boy. He has _never_ felt this good before. His nerves are ablaze with raw information- more than he has ever processed before. All he can do is kiss Hamada, wildly and wet, and react.

Hamada _loves_ the reactions. Every gasp and shudder and groan is like an electric shock to his sex; it drives him against the smaller boy, unable or unwilling to slow down, to give room to any doubts that may have had time to form. He knows it's selfish. He knows it is rape.

But it is the best rape; something so young and wanton and fresh and _willing_. He's undone the fronts of their uniform pants; his knees are bent, and Izumi is hiked halfway up the wall, bucking into his hand, leg tight around his hip. Yoshiro maneuvers his own sex against the other's boy's and Izumi's head drops back. His neck is long and exposed and slick with sweat, and Hamada latches on to it, sucking and feeding on and into the lovely, desperate sounds Kosuke is making.

Izumi's small hands digging into his shoulders, a trembling, rolling groan of pleasure; release, one shortly after the other. Wet, hot, breathlessness. They slide together, to the floor, panting.

It was _so good_.

After several minutes, Izumi's legs stop shaking and Hamada eases them up, into the shower. Kosuke still hasn't spoken, and every time he makes eye contact with the older boy, he blushes and looks away. But his expression isn't angry, or frustrated, or betrayed. Only reflective, changed. They scrub away the evidence, stow their hardly more filthy than usual uniforms in their bags, and leave the club in silence.

The old tension is gone, replaced by something altogether more tenuous and strange.

* * *

><p>At first, nothing seems changed, and Hamada can't seem to approach Izumi during their off time. He lets himself hang on the younger boy, who is as surly and cross as ever, but less apt to throw him off. The team assumes they've come to an agreement. But it isn't quite so; it isn't until four days later that they <em>really<em> do.

Hamada had gone into the bathroom, urinated, and was about to leave when Izumi stomps in, pulling his shirt off as he approaches. He backs the bigger boy against a stall door and pulls him down by the jaw. The kiss is hot and demanding and makes Hamada _hard_.

"Walk me home," Izumi states, releasing the blonde and turning on his heel.

He does.

* * *

><p>For the next seven months, they work out a routine. Izumi isn't sure what to call what they are doing, but he knows there are many aspects of it that are <em>wrong. <em>But he chooses not to deal with it. In spite of everything, the stress-relief that comes from being touched by Yoshiro outweighs all doubts he has. Even now, he thinks it's laughable that not _once_ did he worry about being caught, that day in the clubhouse. That first time.

Yoshiro makes his worries vanish. Makes him feel _good_. It's worrying because he knows this isn't a path he would normally be allowed to pursue. They get away with it by keeping it a secret, the most carefully kept one he has ever known. Sometimes, he remembers that he is _young_ and that he should be ashamed, that he should stop. But he can't stop.

He doesn't think he'll ever stop.

But one day, he does.

* * *

><p>He won't call it love, because it embarrasses him, and because it's too early in his life to know, to truly understand. But he does <em>care<em> and it does hurt that he can't have Hamada to himself the way that he sometimes wants. That he can't flaunt what they have. That he has no one to talk to about what they do, or how it makes him feel. Sometimes, he is intensely frustrated.

It's his birthday. He'll be fourteen, the same age as Hamada, if only for a month.

He knows what he wants.

He tugs Hamada aside before they enter his home for the family celebration. Pulls the blonde down and whispers in his ear, "Take me all the way tonight."

Hamada flushes, grins, and kisses him fast and hard, before they enter the house.

* * *

><p>It is spectacular. It hurts and it feels good and he feels <em>so<em> close to Hamada. But Hamada says, breathless when they have finished, "I love you," and it _scares_ him.

* * *

><p>And then, he finds out the family is moving. Just... moving. He doesn't know what it means for him, or for Hamada, but he brings it up anyway because as long as he's pretending to be adult enough for what they're doing, he's going to pretend to be adult enough to keep Hamada... informed.<p>

It's his last practice with the team. Everyone is gone, like that first time they were together. Izumi has a feeling of foreboding that is impossible to pinpoint. But it festers in him, dark, painful.

He gets right to the point. "My family is moving. In a week."

Izumi isn't quite sure, to the present, what he expected. Something romantic? Something over-the-top? Anything but what Hamada does.

He doesn't say goodbye, or kiss him, or warn Izumi not to lose his email. He doesn't cry or hold on to him. He just... walks away, without a word.

Izumi knows he should follow, call him- anything, but he doesn't. He isn't sure he even knows how to, or what to say if he did. All he knows is that there is a cold and empty place in his chest; a place that Hamada must have been filling with his touches and warmth and goodness. With the way he would hold him and kiss him and speak to him, far beyond the things he did to make them feel good.

Izumi leaves the field, goes home. Finishes packing and spends the rest of the week lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. He wants to cry, but he doesn't know why, and he can't seem to make it happen. He doesn't have any energy, and he hardly eats, but he never finds the courage to contact the other boy.

It isn't until half a year later, still unpacking, that he finds one of Hamada's shirts, folded among his, that he understands. He doesn't know if it really does smell like Yoshiro, or if it is his brain tricking him, but it seems to and finally, in agony, he cries.

Because he loved Hamada back, stupidly, foolishly, in youth, but he did. And now it's over.


	13. Season Two: Chapter 13

**(KAI) **Back. Please read these notes.

If you haven't watched Season2, please do; these chapters will make more sense if you're familiar with the episodes. On the other hand, I'll be deviating from the source material much more now, so... anyway, I'll mark the episodes from here.

This chapter took me nearly four weeks to get through, for many reasons, so please expect continued slow updates.

It's been a long time running, so please forgive me if I re-hash themes I've covered in the past.

* * *

><p><strong>01<br>**

* * *

><p><strong>Slip and Foul<strong>

Laying his head down on the cool wood of his desk, Izumi is vaguely furious. The nerve of Hamada driving a conversation to something as inappropriate and unwelcome as Coach's personal life and... _assets. _He takes a deep breath and brings his arms up to cushion his forehead; there was a part of him that wasn't in particular surprised, and that, too, was frustrating. Hamada was still a growing young man, was still malleable, perhaps. At least-

Okay, yes, Coach had ridiculous proportions. It didn't matter where _his_ interests lay, Izumi was still going to notice. And so, apparently, would Hamada.

There was nothing for it. It wasn't as though he had a right to be jealous; they had barely made it past cordial greetings in the morning and at practice. Had barely begun to speak to each other at school, in class together, at lunch- and only when there were other people around.

Izumi couldn't help it. He felt so _skittish_ and _helpless_. And when he felt out of sorts he got mad, and when he got mad he wanted to cry or throw things or break something. Though, even when he and Hamada had been... doing what they had been doing... he had been skittish and angry, so what was the difference? It would have been better to have gone to another school, really. Would have been better to never see Hamada again. Time had done nothing to make the awful pressure and hurt and _want_ fade away. Kosuke took a deep breath; no matter what he was doing, or feeling, stupid Hamada was always dominating his thoughts.

And it was totally unclear if Hamada was even _sparing_ him a thought. The eye contact they had shared at the end of the first official game, in all its intensity, seemed like it had happened years ago, seemed untouchable now. Izumi was beginning to feel afraid- well and truly _afraid_- as if he had... _imagined _it all.

* * *

><p><strong>02<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Little Spark<strong>

Hanai's mother is a pretty woman; her features are soft, and round, a little worn-looking, but still pretty. An older lady kind of pretty. A 'mom' kind of pretty. Her eyes, especially, are gentle and bright, and Tajima knows immediately that Hanai got his own pretty eyes from her.

Gentle and bright.

Tajima swallows hard, gives Hanai a sidelong glance, and stares with determination into the match.

* * *

><p><strong>Poorly Timed<strong>

Up until Hanai's outburst, Suyama had been enjoying Sakaeguchi's warm shoulder against his own; since the first official game, Sakaeguchi had been strangely, openly, affectionate. It was driving Suyama completely insane, but it was also, _so so _nice. Yuuto had spent a handful of weekends with him, had spent the entirety of his birthday with him, and had been generally very open and warm.

But... Yuuto was _always_ open and warm. That was _normal_ for him.

Shoji knew he had to stop reading into the behaviour. Had to remember that they were _best friends, _had been for quite a while, now. It had happened so easily, so organically, and the _feelings_ that had followed had _also _come easily and organically. He _knew_ he had to box them away and stay neutral- be the friend that Yuuto deserved. But it was difficult- _beyond _difficult.

His hopes had risen without his permission when Sakaeguchi had started spending even more time with him. Yuuto had suddenly begun calling more often, had made so much time for him, and had been so sweet. God, if only he wasn't so sweet. Shoji had never met anyone so in tune and empathetic to other people and their needs. He, himself, had been on the receiving end of Yuuto's gentle empathy. He was shocked that his best friend hadn't figured him out all the way- hadn't accused him of being...

_Attached_ like he was.

It was too much. The push-pull of enjoying the extra attention and company and casual brushes versus the pain of not being able to go further, to say what he knew he should, or to risk Yuuto finding him out, was breaking him apart on the inside. It was _violent_ in there. And Yuuto didn't deserve that.

A small part of him was glad for their captain's distraction.

A small part of him hated it.

And both parts ate him up.

* * *

><p><strong>Already Left<strong>

Momoe enjoyed the idle, baseball-related chat the two mothers threw at her, but as soon as it took a turn for Shiga, she was glad for the distraction of a cool drink.

* * *

><p><strong>Companionable<strong>

They're quiet, standing together, watching. Sometimes, things are like this. Easy, quiet- not at all stressful. Sometimes, they find themselves on the same wavelength, inexplicably but comfortably. It reminds Mihashi of the training camp, when he woke in the night to see Abe nearby, sleeping with his body curved toward the pitcher, as though he'd been watching over him before passing out. It reminds Abe of the rare, happy smiles that Mihashi sometimes affects; the ones that beam bright and cheery, because he feels appreciated, because he feels liked and a part of everything.

It reminds Abe of the feelings that come sometimes, the warm ones, in his stomach.

He glances at Mihashi, whose honey-brown eyes are fixed, stolid and determinedly, to the game in front of them. The feeling flares and he wonders at it; wonders at the way the barest summer breeze moves Mihashi's hair, wonders at the length and lightness of Mihashi's eyelashes, wonders at the curve of his neck and shoulders, wonders at his hard-working hands, and their familiar callouses.

He wonders why they can't always be like this- in tune and comfortable and stress-free.

Mihashi seems finally to feel his gaze and glances back; their eyes meet and Abe's mouth goes, for a moment, dry. There is an open, trusting look there that Abe isn't sure he deserves, isn't sure he wants.

But then Mihashi gives a small, tentative smile, and Abe re-thinks _everything. _

* * *

><p><strong>Underweight<strong>

Abe frets after him and Mihashi can't help but like the attention. It makes him feel... _wanted_.

There are other words for the feeling, but he can't bring himself to use them. Can't possibly believe they could surface in his mind to begin with. Abe has that effect on him; his presence is so commanding and his opinion means so much. Mihashi knows it must be hero-worship. He fears failing Abe, fears making his turn his back; the idea of losing Abe is devastating in every way, though he isn't sure _how _he would go about _losing_ Abe.

Abe makes him _feel_ so many odd, incalculable things. Especially when he speaks softly, gently; especially when he looks his way to check up on him. Mihashi likes the attention _so much_. So much, so, that being underweight doesn't really bother him at all.

* * *

><p><strong>Temper, Temper<strong>

Abe manages to scare Mihashi away- though he is nominally aware of how absurd this escape mechanism of Mihashi's is. The boy's demeanor can be so infuriating sometimes. Between his bouts of sweetness and lightness, he is jittery, worried, and _scared_, and does _stupid _things because of that mentality. And the fear- that's what sets Abe off.

Because Mihashi seems to be afraid of _him,_ and that, for all the strangest reasons, _hurts_. And, unfortunately, the only way Abe knows to deal with that hurt is to lash out, lose his temper, and scare Mihashi away.

Self-perpetuating the myth, making things worse, and leaving him stumped as to how to proceed.

A little part of him, though, thinks, _I care. I think that's why he sets me off so much. He drives me crazy, and even though I want this team to succeed, even though I want to go to the top with him, I can't help but worry. Because I... I really..._

_I really care about him. _

* * *

><p><strong>Oh.<strong>

The things that Oki says... they do and they don't help. Abe covers his mouth in astonishment at himself. _I've really been underestimating my... temperament?_

A long pause.

..._Even my laugh?_

* * *

><p><strong>Pep<strong>

Abe's voice is a sudden thing, large and startling. Mihashi wants to run away- but can't. Embarrassment at his last freak-out keeps him rooted, but the tone in Abe's voice as he asks him questions... Oh, there is fear. And when Mihashi makes a mis-step, he gets a little punishment- the familiar push of Abe's knuckles against his skull.

But it isn't as rough as it has been, and Abe's voice doesn't go as loudly as it has, and he seems... patient. It is astounding and brilliant, and casts Abe in a light that Mihashi can't shake. He listens, respectful, but a part of him is somewhere else- in a place of wonderment, where he can only see Abe's grey eyes, where the shadows meet the light.

The moment passes when Abe asks him a particularly distressing question, and a long silence stretches between them. Abe's face is a mask of dis-quieting, dark humor, and though Mihashi knows the answer, he is afraid to speak. _He's going to yell at me, he's going to yell at me-_

"Ba... Ba..."

Abe smiles a weird smile and shouts, "Yes! The batter! Great."

And Mihashi's insides implode with happiness.

* * *

><p><strong>Sweat<strong>

After the team run, the group scatters to the drinking fountain or the dug-out, or to whatever team-mate needs gossiping with, but Tajima heads to the rear of the dug-out and Hanai _sees_. The shorter boy has flung his jersey and undershirt to the ground, and is working on his pant buttons.

It doesn't take any time at all, but it's irreversible. Hanai's mind has taken a snapshot of what it sees; an image that will haunt him as soon as his head hits the pillow for weeks to come. A small, sturdy frame, back taut, sweat running down tanned skin. Dark hair stuck to the nape of his neck...

The most unwelcome image- accompanied by a wave of heat below his belt- is now a part of Hanai's memory, impossible to erase. As he yells, his mind rushes. He has been in the showers with the guys before, yes, and he's looked, _yes_, but that's all _normal._

Isn't it?

What edge of voyeurism makes his heart leap into his throat as he catches Tajima stripping beyond the fence, uncaring, wild, free?

Just what is this? And why?

* * *

><p><strong>Breathless<strong>

Abe watches the air stutter in and out of Mihashi's small chest. His hands are balled to his chest, and his eyes are far-off. In the end, he might be too small for a one-hundred percent level of their work-outs. It's worrisome, especially with the next match approaching.

The way Mihashi lies is also worrisome; Abe assumes the pitcher doesn't want anyone to worry, and that's _exactly _what sets off Abe's feelings of misgiving. He wants to set Mihashi down, somehow, re-set him, make him better.

The way he holds his breath and squirms, the shaking and the attempt to be well- there are parts of Abe that are scared. Overwhelmed, surprised, and... simply _scared_.

He brainstorms; there has to be a way to win _and _take care of Mihashi; to _protect _him.

Because the team- and Mihashi- needs him to.

* * *

><p><strong>03<br>**

* * *

><p><strong>Funny Thing<strong>

Sakaeguchi has been feeling more confident lately. After their win, after Suyama's help, he had begun to stand straighter and carry himself with more confidence. It came and went, at times, but it was always sort of... there.

He laughed more often, and girls had started to notice him more, which brought him absurd levels of pride, and equal levels of embarrassment. The embarrassment came from Suyama; no matter how he brought it up or phrased it, his best friend would flush and look away, hardly responding before accepting any change of topic.

Sakaeguchi didn't quite understand; he liked girls well enough, especially if they were cute, but it wasn't as though he was embarrassed by the idea of them. Perhaps Shoji was just a late bloomer. Yuuto had considered it at length and felt he could relate somewhat. He had only _really_ started thinking about girls a couple of summers ago, and only because his older cousin had come to visit for a couple of weeks.

Before then, he hadn't really thought about girls; for Yuuto, it had been school and baseball and his team-mates. Even now, girls were a peripheral thing. So for Shoji, maybe girls just weren't part of the equation _at all_, yet. In a way, that was fine by Yuuto. He didn't want a girlfriend or anything, because that would interfere with baseball, and he didn't want Shoji to have a girlfriend because that would interfere with-

His train of thought stuttered and stalled and he almost dropped his glove.

_Me?_

* * *

><p><strong>Sleeping<strong>

Abe pretends to nap while Sakaeguchi speaks to Mihashi; he had come over immediately, curious as to what they might be saying. Curious to what Sakaeguchi might say to his pitcher. As he relaxed and listened, he gave in to the understanding that he _might _be somewhat possessive over the blonde. But it was for the betterment of the team, so that was okay- wasn't it?

A little voice- _the_ little voice- told him No. This is something else entirely.

And when Mihashi confesses that, despite his own inclination to stay on the mound no matter what, if Abe told him to come down, he _would_, the possessiveness spikes and wanes and hardens in Abe's gut, turning into something that is warm and thoughtful.

Sakaeguchi goes on to confess their need to keep Mihashi healthy and able to pitch because of Hanai and Oki not being ready, and Abe's agreements come out louder and more reassuring than he remembers himself ever being.

Mihashi's face is surprised, and Abe can read some measure of betrayal in them. He wants to say more, then, something _extra_ reassuring to put Mihashi at ease, but Hanai shouts at them, and there is no chance a resolution to the feeling of contrition in Abe's chest.

* * *

><p><strong>More<strong>

Mihashi is never certain what to think or do or say; he _wants_ to do whatever the right thing is, but it's never clear. Most especially, he just wants to gain Abe's approval. Nothing matters so much as pitching and earning a smile or a word of praise from the catcher. He is like a tsunami, hovering and peaked and ready to crash- tumbling over Mihashi and keeping the breath out of him, sometimes.

Sometimes, at night, Mihashi can hardly think straight, turning over thoughts of Abe and his presence, for all its ups and downs.

Sometimes, he dreams about Abe.

Sakaeguchi jogs off, and Mihashi has to look away from the darkness of Abe's eyes and the way his mouth sits at an impassive angle. There is a nervousness chewing at him, a kind of anxiety which has grown from some seed he cannot remember being sewn in his solar plexus. He gulps.

Abe had agreed, if he couldn't pitch, they were goners. The team _needed_ him. His face had burned, warm and surprised and happy, and it was like _Abe_ needed him. The feeling now seems silly, childish, and strange.

"I... was wrong... I won't..." he murmurs, hand sweating inside his glove. Abe is looking away, a peculiar and pronounced look on his face. He seems a little flushed. "I won't... say anything anymore."

Abe's face snaps back toward him, with a look of frustration in its most extreme form, and suddenly his hands are on him, his knuckles against his temples. "You've got it all wrong! I want you to talk _more!_"

Mihashi can hardly think straight. Abe's chest is close, his voice loud, and that slinky, hopeful feeling is snaking its way around his tummy and throat.

Abe releases him, cursing vehemently, and Mihashi apologizes.

Mihashi thinks how odd it is that Abe is so red in the face, still so close, and almost smiling.

* * *

><p><strong>Theory<strong>

Shoji leaned on one arm while Sakaeguchi rambled; he was going a mile a minute, taking small breaks to cram fries in his mouth or take a long gulp of soda. It was their rare treat. Secretly, once a month, they would go to a burger joint the next district over, and eat one terrible, delicious meal.

"I was thinking this a little while ago, from watching him and Abe. At the beginning, you know, he wouldn't let go of the mound at all. But now, because he looks up to Abe so much, he said he would. In junior high, I think he was ignored pretty severely, so he didn't feel like he properly existed."

Shoji nodded, eating fries one at a time. When Yuuto was excited, his whole face lit up, and his eyes seemed to sparkle with thoughts, all tumbling around, trying to find their way out.

"But the game can't go forward without the pitcher, right? So as long as he was on the mound, he existed. And I can remember how nervous and small he held himself when we got started, so..."

Yuuto paused to think; an idea was rolling around his mind, partially formed and struggling for grip. He stole Suyama's drink cup and drank the rest of his best friend's soda. "I think... he feels like he exists outside of the mound because of Abe."

He blushed, knowing how it sounded. More strange than that was the way Suyama blinked, laughed a little, and looked up at the ceiling, where exposed rafters lent the family burger place its rustic charm. Finally he responded, "I think I can understand that."

* * *

><p><strong>Stress Response<strong>

There is something wrong with him. Something sick and weird and unyielding. Hanai had tried to treat it like a normal thing, had tried to give it the attention it demanded, but there was too much, all the time. He tried to be mature about it- but it would not vanish or dissipate.

In the end, there wasn't anything he could do.

And seeing Tajima nearly every day did not help. And seeing Tajima run, or jump, or catch, or bat, or _strip and shower_, made it worse. It was insane. Beyond comprehension. And now they were embroiled in an official game and he was terrified that Tajima _had begun to notice._

* * *

><p><strong>Soon<strong>

From the safety of the dugout, Suyama watches Sakaeguchi bat. He does his job well, and it is a marvel to see him smiling as he returns, not hurt in the least at not getting on base. There is nothing special about this moment, nothing out of the ordinary, but Suyama finds him completely mesmerizing.

He'll have to say something, sooner or later.

* * *

><p><strong>Sudden<strong>

Tajima is high on cloud nine; things are going well. He's confident, assured. Watching Hanai approach the plate, he bounces on his heels, wondering what to do with the antsy, anticipatory feeling building up in his chest. Sometimes Hanai pisses him off. Sometimes Hanai makes him want to... _dance _or something.

He frowned. No, that wasn't it.

There was no accurate facsimile. No word meant what Hanai made him feel. Perhaps, though... _excitement. _

It reminds him of how some of his older siblings talk and he feels, suddenly, _so_ irritated. Hanai isn't allowed to do that to him. That's just _not allowed. _

Another run is scored and Hanai enters the dug-out. He's pulling his gloves off of his strong hands- _not allowed- _and a small line of sweat is disappearing down his neck- _not fucking allowed._

"Don't be too content." He says, words more calm than his interior by a wide mile. Hanai seems surprised. Good. Shake him up. Scare him off. Keep him at a distance. "Don't tell me you are?"

And then he walks away.

* * *

><p><strong>Sudden<strong>

The implications of Tajima's words ricochet inside of Hanai's head; there is a feeling attached. Some kind of anger, some kind of gut-churning anxiety. He's second-guessing himself. Tajima might be right.

Tajima might be better than him.

Is.

Suddenly, Hanai wants to break something.

* * *

><p><strong>Back to Good<strong>

_It makes me happy to be counted on._ Mihashi thinks, jogging to the mound. Abe _counts_ on him. It feels better than forcing an out, better than hitting, better than winning, better than _pitching_. It feels so amazing. He lets out a small, nervous laugh. _Abe counts on me. _

* * *

><p><strong>Jeering<strong>

Experimentally, Abe says, "Quite a lot of heckling out there."

Mihashi is unstrapping one of the catcher's shin guards; "Yeah. But I'm okay."

It's simple, but it means everything. Abe had been worried about Mihashi's frame of mind, had wanted to protect him from being hurt, but the pitcher is doing all right on his own. Is perfectly content.

Abe goes on, "Everything's going to plan."

"Y-Yeah," Mihashi giggles, pulling the guard away. Abe's airy, happy voice makes his stomach feel funny.

"Your smirk was a nice touch, too. It'll annoy them."

Mihashi blushes, grinning and feeling a little stupid. "Right."

And Abe is grinning, too. He's relaxed and his shoulders are rolled back and his eyebrows are tilted in a funny, confident way and Mihashi's stomach is just literally not making any sense. He tries to look away, but the awe is too great. Abe's devil-may-care face is something Mihashi isn't sure he'll ever forget.

* * *

><p><strong>Inside Joke<strong>

When Abe's mother meets Mihashi's mother, she apologizes for how brusque and bossy Takaya can be. Sweetly, Mihashi's mother reassures the other woman. It's a funny thing. Neither of them have any idea.


	14. Chapter 14

**(KAI)** Thank you to Reviews to Master and Catsdon'tcry for their contributions. [Forum topic "Nervous Breakdown, Nine Innings- Feedback" - HERE: forum. fanfiction topic/30797/62905331/1/ (remove spaces).]

* * *

><p><strong>04<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Out<strong>

Mihashi slides on his belly for first, an awkward, last-ditch flop that neither works nor looks comfortable. Abe clenches his fists; he wants Mihashi to succeed, but he _hates_ it when the pitcher takes risks. If he was hurt...

That would be the end of everything.

And he couldn't handle it, the way his imagination ran when he saw Mihashi fall or trip or stumble. He feared seeing blood, seeing an unnatural bend or some awful break, or the worst: Mihashi falling and simply not getting back up. He couldn't... could _not... _handle it.

* * *

><p><strong>Thorn Inside<strong>

Hanai has a peculiar resentment clogging up his mind; waiting on the holding spot, watching the game and watching Tajima and watching the game- and watching _Tajima._ God _damn_ him. He's standing there, coaching, looking calm and serious and taller than he really is.

But he is _not_ the clean-up hitter. Hanai is.

Hanai tries to hold on to the coach's confidence in him, but he can't help that inkling. That thorn in his side that reminds him of Tajima's skill and efficiency and prowess.

The feeling of hitting the ball, wide and high and so far away, is amazing. Thrilling, and that makes the pain of its getting caught the more devastating. Dimly, he can hear Tajima- perfect, damn Tajima- sending out words of assurance and comfort. Just the basics- "Good hit," "Nice job."

He can't stand it. Pulling off his gloves in the dug-out, he hears Sakaeguchi cheer for Suyama and the _jealousy _that rips through him is startling. Their friendship is _ridiculous._ They've hung out nearly all the time since they met, seemed to share everything, and we're obviously each other's biggest fans. He wishes he had someone like that. A friend cheering for him because they want to, not because they have to.

His eyes are hot with what he knows are angry tears, and he manages to swallow down the desperate, desolate feeling that accompanies the image of Tajima in his mind. It's an official game. There are more important things than his own confused, stupid wants. Especially those of a variety he doesn't even _begin_ to understand.

He pulls himself together, finds strength in being the captain of a team he is monstrously proud of, and keeps going.

* * *

><p><strong>Crash<strong>

It makes sense. It hurts. And it makes _sense_.

_Even when he's injured, they rely more on Tajima than me. _

_Even when he's injured._

_More than me._

Hanai can't help the way his heart hangs- heavy and sad and confused. This person who he has intermittently admired and dismayed of and resented and found... captivating, to say the least- this person is more important than him to the team.

The way Mihashi looks up to him, the way Coach prefers him, and the way the rest of the team spurs him on. It's all very clear. Though Hanai is the clean-up hitter today... Tajima is their pillar and game-changer.

It _hurts._

* * *

><p><strong>05<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Absence of Faith<strong>

Tajima sees Hanai hitting, missing. It's frustrating. Seeing Hanai so tense and out of sorts stretches something inside of him; it could be called pity, but it isn't quite the same. It's an empathy, a knowing. The frustration builds and he calls, "Two outs! Two outs!"

Somehow, past his selfishness, he knows it's the wrong thing.

* * *

><p><strong>Better Not<strong>

Abe watches, intent, as Tajima slides into the first base and outs the batter without having to throw; he does it smoothly, magically, with confidence. It's admirable right up until he compliments Mihashi and his words turn Mihashi into putty- face red and ears practically steaming. The logical part of Abe's brain- the _biggest_ part of Abe's brain- tells him not to be ridiculous. Tajima has always been cool and confident, and has always supported Mihashi.

The possessive, _growing larger every day_, part of his brain wants to kick Tajima's ass into the ground.

He takes a deep breath. Steadies his heels into the dirt.

_When did I get like this? Over Mihashi of all people?_

A flash hits him, fast and hard. It's a memory of working with Mihashi during- was it against Nishiura or Tousei?- _some _game. He had thought to himself, "If you stay with me, I'll make you feel like this as much as you want."

And, "It's me who can bring out your potential."

Oh. Oh, oh, oh. And for that moment, for one single moment, though no one saw, Abe was just as red as Mihashi.

* * *

><p><strong>Maintenance<strong>

Is it that same possessiveness that makes Abe's blood boil when Mihashi goes to participate in grounds maintenance? Or is it the usual protectiveness? It's not as though Mihashi is incapable... He just needs to take it easy. He needs not to overwork himself. Abe knows he won't be able to handle it if Mihashi deteriorates the same way he did last game. He _won't_.

Mihashi is so small. He's nearly the shortest person on their team, but he's entirely the lightest. He isn't malnourished by a long mile, and it isn't as though his ribs show, but he _is_ thinner than he should be, and he _does_ tire out the fastest.

Abe takes those same deep breaths he knows keep him from going out of his mind with temper; it is impossible to say. Protective, possessive. Either way, he isn't surprised that Mihashi won't leave his mind for even a moment.

* * *

><p><strong>Miscommunications<strong>

On his way to leveling the field, Mihashi is stopped by Hanai. His captain seems troubled, and his voice is unusually low. Immediately, Mihashi knows he's in trouble. Anxiety blossoms in his chest; his instinct is to run, to hide- perhaps go and hide behind Abe, that would be safest. Because not even the captain would try Abe.

And then Hanai apologized. But it didn't make sense- Hanai had spoken loudly to him, yes- but-

"N-No, you're wrong..." Mihashi tried.

"What do you mean? I'm not wrong!" Hanai's puzzled face made Mihashi's heart beat faster. It was as though he were being dared by a higher power to fly into a conniption.

Words tumbled from Mihashi's mouth, "You didn't... You didn't do anything you need to apologize for!"

More puzzlement. "Really? But you froze up at that time."

Mihashi's heart can't handle it. It's too much to explain; the anxiety and panic is rising and rumbling and killing him. It feels like his head will blow apart. "I-I-"

He's backed himself up the wall, knees nearly shaking, and Hanai is talking, about what, he isn't sure- "But you _weren't _intimidated. You weren't affected- you're a good pitcher."

It's praise. It's _praise_. Mihashi starts to shake, the anxiety mucking around his body and mixing with the little burst of happiness.

"What is it?"

"You're amazing, Hanai," he lets out in a strained breath, looking down.

Hanai frowned, confused and completely blown away. "What? I'm not amazing at all."

"You... you _are_ amazing."

"But Tajima is more amazing than me, right?"

A silence stretches, and Mihashi is confronted with a Hanai he isn't sure he understands. It's confusing and makes him hurt to hear the note of sadness in his captain's voice. Empathy rockets through his blood; despite his best efforts, the shaking won't stop. His mind whirls; it's obvious to him now; Tajima wants to be a pitcher. Hanai was going to be a back-up pitcher, and maybe Oki, but if _Tajima_ wants to pitch, then-

Mihashi shudders, and feels like his knees won't hold him up. "If Tajima... If Tajima becomes a pitcher, I... I... I don't stand _a chance_."

Silence follows his murmuring, and he can only ramble on, "Hanai... you throw so fast, and Oki is a lefty. If you two became serious... I wouldn't stand a chance, then."

The idea makes him feel as though he's been punched in the gut, and it makes him feel the burn of _what if_. "If that happens... I... I... I'll compete!"

The shout seems to startle Hanai as much as it startled Mihashi, and he drops back against the wall, clutching his shirt, "I'm... I'm sorry!"

It feels like his heart will hammer from his chest. His stomach is tied in the tightest knot, and he doesn't know what to do. He wishes Abe were around.

* * *

><p><strong>Epiphany<strong>

In the end, Mihashi completely misunderstands Hanai. But _Hanai_ understands. _It's okay to compare ourselves to others. It's good to compete... to become better. _

And suddenly, the poison leaves his body.

* * *

><p><strong>Short and Sweet... Or, Not.<strong>

Hanai is shocked when Tajima comes back from grounds maintenance, marches right up to him, and demands that he not bully Mihashi. It's shocking to know that Tajima can read the peculiar state Mihashi is in and immediately pinpoint a cause. And take _action_.

Hanai senses that Tajima's sense of justice is intense, indeed.

And, he can't help but feel, through the awkward feeling of being berated, that Tajima is unutterably stunning when he's mad.

* * *

><p><strong>Overdrive<strong>

"Mihashi! Stop jerking around!" Abe's voice is loud and firm from the dug-out, and it carries that _thing_ that Mihashi thinks he can hear sometimes; that gentleness or worry or protectiveness to which he thinks he might be addicted.

_That's right... Abe doesn't want me to get hurt. _He adjusts his stance over home plate and focuses.

_Abe is worried._

When the pitch connects with his bat, it feels like a firework.

* * *

><p><strong>Anti-Sparkle<strong>

Tajima calls out to Hanai to praise him; he's pleased that the opportunity has arisen. Especially afte yelling at him by the tool sheds. He also does an impression of Coach that makes Hanai laugh a small, curious laugh. Tajima nods; Hanai grins and lights up in a funny way.

As he jogs away, Tajima watches and thinks very hard about the reasons why he likes to touch on Hanai's nerves so much. It doesn't seem to matter if they're good or bad nerves, as long as he get a reaction.

Of course, theirs is a particularly reserved captain, so... Of course he would enjoy getting a kind of rise out of Hanai.

And that's all.

Really.

Tajima glances up, at the clouds, and lets out a nervous laugh. _Maybe not. _

* * *

><p><strong>Anti-Dis-Sparkle<strong>

After the game, Tajima approaches Hanai. He can't help it. Part of him is cautious. Part of him wants to... start a fight, or something. It's a strange, aggressive feeling he isn't familiar with.

They banter and it's easy, but he knows there's an undercurrent.

Hanai regards him, curiosity blatant in his dark eyes.

"I would have thought you'd want the clean-up spot right back?" Hanai is saying, looking strangely handsome with his eyebrow quirked.

"Moron!" the smaller boy grinds out, getting closer, as if he had no control over his body. "That's no fun. And what's least fun is this injury."

He grasped his wrist and looked down, suddenly embarrassed, suddenly a little sad. He didn't want Hanai to see this. He didn't want _anyone_ to see this. But he can't help himself. "I was able to hit Takase's sinker... but I'm so frustrated!"

Vaguely, as he hollers into the ground, he can register Hanai's hands rising, palms out-stretched. They must be like his- calloused. He feels that frustration hit a boiling point and then roil away. Impulsively, unable to stop himself, he grumbles upward, "I hate tall guys, anyway."

Hanai can't even articulate. He stares down at Tajima- short and spunky and with the spray of freckles across his nose- and can't believe what he's hearing. Tajima puts his hands on his hips. He feels like he's revealed too much. Like he can't stop himself from revealing more. "It goes without saying, doesn't it? ...I'm short."

"But you're going to grow, aren't you?" Hanai sputters- and it's funny because of how tall he is. Only Hamada is taller, but that's cheating because he's older.

"Well, then it won't matter!"

And Tajima takes the first chance he can to run away, because it's funny, because he's embarrassed, and because he isn't sure he can keep looking up into Hanai's sweet, confused face.

* * *

><p><strong>Anti-Dis-Establish-Sparkle<strong>

Tajima's attention. All of it. On him.

_I really don't get it, _Hanai thinks, beginning to flush with happiness, _But I'm really glad I'm tall!_

* * *

><p><strong>Give Or Take<strong>

After the game, Mihashi lays out on an old yoga mat; it's _so_ hard to watch everyone else enjoy the popsicles Shinooka brought, but it's also _very_ nice to have Abe's hands on him. He's stretching his hips in a pilates move, while Abe carefully rubs his right arm. Abe's focus is _so_ intense. And his hands are _so_ warm.

Everything in the world is good. Except he might melt in Abe's grasp before he gets a chance at the popsicles.

* * *

><p><strong>06<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Train<strong>

Mihashi is nervous, still convinced his pitching is no good, and it's driving Abe insane. On the bright side, assuring the pitcher that intentional walks and giving up strategic hits is all about the flow of the game, and going with the best odds. It's the most they've spoken in a while, but it's getting easier.

Mihashi doesn't frazzle Abe's nerves the same way he used to; the blonde is under his skin, on his mind, and impossible to understand, but he isn't _infuriating. _He's in a good mood, feeling more patient than he ever has, riding high on a solid win and Mihashi's continued health. Watching Mihashi cling to a pole on the train, he wants to clasp him on the shoulder, or _something_, to be encouraging, supportive.

It's taken a long time, but he's sure he's getting better at taking care of the pitcher, and it makes him warm and anxiously happy, as if an especially nice rug might be pulled out from under him.

He takes one step forward, hanging on to a loop that swings limp from the roof of the trundling train; Mihashi glances up at him for only a fraction of a second before looking away. His ears are red, and Abe knows it's cute- _feels _that it is. One more step. Mihashi is shaking sporadically, hands white-knuckling the pole though the ride is relatively smooth. _Is it because of me?_

Abe swallows, throat dry. His heart takes one brief trip up to his collar bones before returning to its usual location; it's definitely beating faster. "You're a good pitcher, Mihashi. You're great."

He says it more quietly than he'd intended, more low in his throat; in one quick, brave motion, he reaches out and ruffles Mihashi's hair- it's a little dry, but soft enough- and lets his hand drag gently over the pitcher's ear, neck, and shoulder, ending in a firm clasp around the top of Mihashi's chilly arm.

He lets go, but he can't breathe; Mihashi is looking at him with the largest, most uncomprehending eyes he's ever seen. He isn't sure himself what to think. One minute he'd been frustrated, the next, his patience had won out- and then, his affection. A long moment passes; Abe clears his throat, flushes, and almost says something- anything- to change the subject, to escape the situation. He's certain Mihashi is going to go into histrionics any moment: "You don't hate me? I'm no good," etcetera. But Mihashi doesn't. He only looks down, pulls himself closer to the pole, and says, "You're the great one."

Peering closely, Abe can see that Mihashi is smiling a very small, very sweet little smile.

And it's beautiful.

* * *

><p><strong>Bully<strong>

With the air cleared between them, Hanai and Tajima settle into a cautions, slow-moving friendship. It hasn't made it's way past baseball practice, but things are going well. Hanai is thrilled when Tajima moves away from Mihashi and the magazine they'd been sharing and confides, "It does kind of looks like Abe is bullying Mihashi. I know he's not really, but I feel defensive about it."

"You're really like Mihashi's older brother, Tajima, that's unexpected," Hanai watches the world fling past them, and it's mostly green, but he can see the shorter boy in the window as a partial, undulating reflection with dark eyes.

"Someone has to look out for him, he's... I dunno, fragile."

"Yeah," Hanai smiles. It's true, but it's funny. Even Tajima is sturdier than Mihashi, but it all comes down to fortitude, and Tajima is _made_ of fortitude. He's tough, ballsy, and loud- confident and brash and charismatic. The adjectives roll around in Hanai's mind unbidden, without connection. He shakes his head, but nothing is cleared.

His focus returns to the hills and the houses and the city; he doesn't notice Tajima's reflection, regarding him with those focused, dark eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Value<strong>

Abe took a couple of cautions steps away, and Mihashi relaxed. The explanation of the game layouts had helped immensely; knowing that he had gotten the called game confused with regular games. It strikes him now, in a way it hasn't before- the words Abe had said, and his tone and pitches and how he'd been patient.

And how he'd ruffled his hair and patted his shoulder.

_The called game was for me. To keep me safe and healthy._

_Abe cares about me._

Abe's fingers had brushed his neck, and his ear. Of course- it must not have been intentional. That would be- what would that be? Mihashi smiles again and touches his ear. It's warmer than it usually is; he shivers when he thinks of Abe's hand against his neck instead of his shoulder. It's a fascinating, tempting kind of thought. The redness that spreads across his face is deep and conspicuous, and he drops his head to avoid seeing his team-mates.

This means something. Abe means something.

_Abe cares about me._

* * *

><p><strong>Radar Blip<strong>

_I'm trying to foster his self-confidence, but it's difficult._

"Abe... thank you."

"What are you thanking me for?"

_Abe was testing me..._

_I guess our conversation is over... I learn so much when I talk to Abe. Abe is amazing. As long as Abe is with me, I'll be fine. _

* * *

><p><strong>The Unexpected<strong>

Later that day, when Mihashi makes it to practice in his black shirt and baseball breeches, he hears the familiar, solid _thump_ of a baseball hitting a glove, followed by a familiar, pleasantly deep voice, "All right, eighteen. Now nineteen."

And the first thing he sees is Abe determined face, followed by Oki's relaxed stance. He isn't sure why, but it feels like he's been socked in the gut. It isn't as though he didn't know Oki and Hanai practiced pitching, but it seemed like Tajima's realm to be the secondary catcher.

Not Abe.

Abe is _his _catcher. But... he _is _an amazing catcher, so _of course_ Oki would need to train with him-

In the split second, he wonders if this is the feeling a person has when they walk in on their love with another person. It's absurd and a little selfish, he knows, but the feeling is there.

Before he has a chance to examine it, tear it down, or understand its implications, Tajima is hollering to him, watermelons stuffed into his shirt. It's ridiculous enough that the tension in his spine goes out.

But later, alone in his room with the moonlight peering on the foot of his bed, he'll remember it.

* * *

><p><strong>Prioritize<strong>

They're stretching, and it's familiar and safe. Mihashi thinks, if he had had a sibling, this is what it would be like.

"Is Oki practicing a curveball?" Tajima wonders aloud, pressing his thumbs into the bottom of his foot.

"I- I think so."

"I'm envious of lefties. If I were left-handed, I'd probably be a pitcher."

Mihashi startles at his friend's off-handedness and casual demeanor; "You... you want to be a pitcher?"

Tajima grins and shakes his head, "Nah, I prioritize hitting. Pitchers don't get as much hitting practice."

"If Tajima got serious about pitching, I wouldn't stand a chance," the blonde mumbles to himself, forgetting to switch and rub his other foot.

"What about Hanai, then? What if he got serious?" it's out of his mouth before Tajima has a chance to think, and it makes his exceedingly self-conscious. He has no idea why.

Mihashi only blinks at him thoughtfully, and Tajima presses on in a rush. "What about Oki?"

"W-With Abe, I won't lose."

"Without Abe, you'll lose?" Tajima leans forward, wrinkling his nose.

Mihashi looks distressed, and he glances to the side before saying, "Abe will... be there. Always."

"Always?"

"A-Always."

Tajima knows then, something he probably shouldn't. It doesn't surprise him, but it makes him wonder.

* * *

><p><strong>Check-Up<strong>

The next day is cool; the sun is rising slowly, casually climbing the sky as if sleepy. Abe stretches one arm up and feels a spot in his back crack happily; it's been a pretty good day so far, even with the minor weirdness of yesterday. He can see Mihashi at the fountain, pulling his shirt over his head, and he is reminded.

His intentions are noble, but he can't help examining Mihashi's torso more _thoroughly_ than he usually does. The blonde is slight and pale, paler where his jersey covers. There's a vague, blurry line where his arms and neck are darker than the rest of him, but the sunscreen he uses must be pretty strong, because it's hard to tell. Overall, it's a lovely sight. His skin is smoother than Abe is used to seeing, and has fewer spots and discolorations. Izumi and Tajima both have freckles on their upper backs, and Izumi has yet more on his shoulders. Oki and Sakaeguchi are unfortunately spotty, and Suyama is covered in old scratches and scars from his rough play style.

Mihashi has very few scars, indeed.

"Oy," he says by way of greeting, hand gripping his bag strap in concentration, "How was your weight today?"

"Good morning. It was... fifty-three kilograms. Plus just a little, I think," Mihashi, halfway into of his shirt, turns and pauses. Abe's voice was so thick just then.

"Oh, you're just about back. You did great," Abe smiles and lets one hand rest on his hip. It's exciting to know that their combined efforts brought Mihashi back up to health. Though fifty-three kilograms is still feather-light compared to other boys his age, it's a start. And it's not as though Mihashi can help it, Abe ponders, seeing as he's so petite and practices so much.

Mihashi's face has taken on a faraway, elated expression that makes Abe want to laugh- it's cute, painfully so.

"Tajima! Are you still using the injury menu in practice today?"

From across the field, Tajima grins, "I'm back to normal today!"

Turning back, Abe starts unbuttoning his shirt and is vaguely disappointed to see that he missed Mihashi pulling his practice shirt on. "Mihashi, Tajima is back to normal, so I want you to stretch and play catch with me."

"Nn? All of it?" Mihashi's tone is curious, and Abe is _certain_ he detects hopefulness.

"You often stretch with Tajima, but that scares me. Like something bad could happen at any minute," Abe goes on, citing all of the reasons he wants to keep an eye on Mihashi's menu and pitch count and health. But, deep down, he knows that much of it is just wanting Mihashi to himself.

* * *

><p><strong>Insecure<strong>

Mihashi doesn't mind what Izumi and Sakaeguchi consider nagging; he only hangs on to the remarkable thought, _Abe cares about me!_

It's enough to make his heart skip beats, but his insecurity won't let him rest. "Abe... thank y-you."

"Sure."

A pause. The insecurity is strong, it tells Mihashi not to count on a good thing persisting. It tells him he's not worth the effort. "A-Abe...?"

"What?"

"Are you g-going to..." he grips the front of his shirt, mouth dry, "...quit catching?"

And Abe explodes. "Of course not, you idiot! What about me make you _think_ that? It makes me want to cry!"

Mihashi cowers, instantly and compactly, and can't believe he said what he said. Though is Abe's reaction is _anything _go by, he has no reason to worry. Tearfully, he tells his insecurity to bite a bullet.

Abe takes a deep breath; the games are so important from here, and he wants more than anything for Mihashi to be happy and relaxed and ready to face things. He isn't sure if he can handle the idea that Mihashi may not trust him to stick to his word, but then he recalls how it was for him at Mihoshi academy, and it's not so hard to understand.

This cowering, quivering mess; he can take care of this. He can make it better.

Abe is certain.


	15. Chapter 15

**(KAI) **I wrote this quite a while ago during the first season, but had to put off posting it. Now is a good time.  
>This would have happened within the last episode for which I wrote (six), between their win against Sakitama, and their upcoming game against Bijoudai Sayama. It would, I believe, have happened before the drabble "Check Up."<br>*Relates to drabble "Edge" from chapter six, if you want some extra context.

* * *

><p><strong>Confession<strong>

"_Haruna is right at the heart of who Abe is."_

* * *

><p>"But <em>Haruna<em>-" Mihashi insisted, his fists caught in the fabric of his shirt, tears hot in his eyes.

"Haruna nothing!" Abe shouted, going from placid to volcanic in zero seconds; Mihashi cringed, regretting having said anything. Abe watched, felt chagrin pile on top of his frustration, and forced himself to take a step back. "Look… sit down."

Mihashi, trembling, collapsed onto the dug-out bench. Behind and to the right of Abe, he could see the remainder of the sunset, red and pink and orange and draped in clouds. He clenched his hands between his knees and wished- but what for, he was unsure.

Abe knelt in front of his feet, his partial crouch reminded Mihashi of pitching practice, and beyond his flustered thoughts, he became slightly more relaxed. As Abe opened his mouth, the pitcher blurted, "I'm sorry! I'm really- really sorry."

The dark-haired boy shook his head, and that strange, gentle smile that Mihashi liked was on his lips. "Do you even know what you're sorry for? Don't apologize, you've done nothing wrong."

He reached out and tugged at Mihashi right wrist. "Give me your hand, okay?"

Mihashi did, and Abe enclosed it with both of his warm hands. "Relax," he said, and then took a deep breath. "Okay, two things. Two, I think. Just don't interrupt me."

The blonde nodded, so fast his vision momentarily blurred.

"First, Haruna is _not_ my pitcher. He used to be, that's all. _You_ are my pitcher," Abe paused when Mihashi's mouth opened, but only a squeak made it past Mihashi's lips before the pitcher clapped his left hand over his mouth- and now the tears were falling slowly, cautiously abating.

"Even if I catch a pitch for Oki, or Hanai, _you_ are my pitcher. Second," he turned Mihashi's hand over and clasped it tight between his own palms, feeling warmth finally spreading through, "Haruna is… he's not how you think. It _wasn't_ great to be his catcher. I- that is-"

"Abe…?" Mihashi's voice was a teeny whisper, and his damp eyes were focused so intently on Abe that he felt his pulse jump into his throat. Mihashi… made him feel strangely, sometimes.

"Don't tell anyone. Not even Sakaeguchi knows," Mihashi nodded, biting his lip, "Haruna isn't how you think. Even I used to feel fortunate to be paired with him, but… I was stupid. I was in denial. He may have a great fastball, but he _does_ lack control. He shakes off signs just to be contrary. He's selfish with his pitches… and he's cruel.

"Whenever I caught for him, my body trembled. Everybody is afraid of getting hurt... you know?"

Abe had looked down at their hands to avoid the warm, confusing feeling that looking into Mihashi's face brought on. With concerted effort, he returned his gaze to Mihashi's eyes and said firmly, "You are better than him. You are _greater _than him. You would… you would never hurt me on purpose, right?"

Mihashi looked shocked by the very suggestion, and his breath came out in a surprised gasp. "That's right… you would never go out of your way to see if you could bruise me, or make me lose my breath, or… make me… cry."

Abe _did_ want to cry. It was so wholly strange, but the confession made him feel like a door had been opened, and the feelings behind that door wanted to be purged through tears. He blinked rapidly, quickly brushed his face against his shoulders, and returned to looking at the neutral point of their connected hands. "Haruna made me cry many times. I hated him. I know that even when you develop your fast ball, you'll never try to hurt me with it. And that's why… I don't have to think about it; if someone asked me, I would always choose you for a pitcher over him. _You_ are my pitcher. I'm proud to catch your throws, proud to be helping you improve."

It was a mouthful and it fell from his lips fast and easily, for the first time with Mihashi. "So, Haruna _nothing_. Don't think about him. Don't compare yourself to him. Don't think I like him more than- than I like you," he finished lamely, flushing hotly against his collar.

Mihashi's fingertips curled, warm, against the top if his hand, his face scrunched up with the effort of not crying, and Abe laughed. "And a third thing, you area _great_ pitcher. Don't forget it."

Mihashi paused, then nodded, his head coming to rest at an angle as he looked down at Abe. The catcher felt good, felt cleansed. He was glad to have told the truth to Mihashi; he gave the other boy's hand a squeeze, happy that it was so warm, and stood.

"Okay, so let's get moving. There's still plenty of daylight to get home," he said, a little gruff, embarrassed at the happy little tears that Mihashi seemed to be crying. The pitcher scuffed his eyes against his forearms and nodded again, but said nothing.

The sun sank low, and when Abe turned away from the blonde, he couldn't help but smile.


	16. Chapter 16

**(KAI) **This is dedicated to Rokutagirl. You rock, lady.  
>PS I am on Tumblr and will be posting teasers and updates, and taking prompts. Hit me up.<br>ivydoll-sushi. tumblr

* * *

><p><strong>Reset<strong>

Hamada had been feeling tense for probably three weeks; it had started with random, innocuous things like waking up late a few times, eating bad sushi, getting into a little fight over the phone, and bombing a mathematics quiz. And then having Shiga bar him from the Sakitama game. _That_ had been the worst; the one straw that left him trembling with pent-up irritation and stress. Life was _only_ tolerable because of baseball. Working, studying, working, studying, and baseball. He had left Shiga's office with his fists clenched, face carefully blank.

"Shit," he breathed, walking with deliberate steps toward the west exit. He made it down two flights of stairs, around the corner, and past the double doors without doing what he wanted to do- hit something. Outside the school was a study in beauty; blue skies and slow clouds, birds. Happy students heading to their after-school activities. To his right, a young man caught his eye; glossy dark hair and a rebellious, tilted collar. Large eyes. Whoever he was, he was gorgeous. But he wasn't Izumi.

The boy was walking with two girls who seemed to be vying for his attention, and Hamada wondered- for a moment- what it was like to be actively pursued. Trudging to the baseball field, a heaviness settling on his shoulders, it was without hesitation that he thought more on his own beautiful boy, Izumi. It was impossible to think of him otherwise. He had had him _once_ after all, for a time. The thought gave him a chill; a memory of Izumi looking up at him, eyes wide and uncertain, then coy and understanding. Izumi was the living personification of extremes, beautiful, deadly, and capable of anything.

There was a bench to the side of the path, shaded and looking recently built; Hamada collapsed into it, wincing as the back bars bit into his spine. He dropped his head into his hands and took one long, deep breath. Izumi was a _bundle_ of contradictions, and he had recently swung to an extreme Hamada didn't _want_ to understand. The younger boy had gone back to ignoring him, avoiding him, and treating him like a stranger, but with the added complication of strange, contemplative looks. Looks that _meant_ something, as if Izumi was attempting to puzzle out a mystery, or was turning over a variety of conflicting facts in his mind. Hamada would catch him in the midst of these looks, turning his peripheral vision to the side and watching color either drain or fill the other boy's freckled cheeks.

It was discomfiting. Things had been going so _well. _For the first time since re-acquainting themselves through the team, Izumi had begun to act warmly around Yoshiro. Had begun to walk and sit a little closer by. Had begun to speak more, and ask more earnest questions. At turns, had been sweet. The blonde had believed, foolishly, for a bit, that things might turn around for them. That they might at least... be friends. He would have been happy with just that, just having Izumi's presence in his life, nearby, accessible- if bittersweet.

They neither of them spoke of what had happened; neither willing, perhaps, to open that wound. Some unspoken rule prevented the disclosure of their past, and Hamada was uncertain of how he felt for _that,_ either. Some moments of silence would pass between them, strange and thick, and he would want to scream and shout and grab Izumi's shoulders- begging, perhaps: "Did you forget? Tell me, at least, that you didn't _forget_."

He knew Izumi hadn't. He hadn't.

Birds sang. They didn't know.

* * *

><p>Izumi blinked. A rush of emotions was tangling up in his head, and he couldn't quite pull one away from the other and make some sense from the maelstrom. Hamada shrugged, "Yeah."<p>

"Oh," he said, more quietly than he'd intended. So Hamada wouldn't be able to be there for the Sakitama game. He fiddled with his hands until his cap was off his over-warm head and crushed to his chest. Hamada watched him; his expression reminded Izumi of _that_ time, and it made the emotions fighting in his head rise to a clamorous din. "Okay."

Hamada nodded and turned; he hadn't yet told Coach. Izumi gripped his cap, eyebrows drawn tightly.

_It was not okay._

* * *

><p>The afternoon of the Sakitama game, Hamada was wild with pent-up energy. He coerced his cheer-mates into hours of stretching, exercising, and practicing their routines for the games they <em>would<em> be able to cheer on Nishiura, but the physical activity did little to ease his mind. Always on the back-burner of his mind was a hot coil of _wondering_. How was the team doing? Were they winning, losing? Did the presence of the cheer squad make a difference?

He tied his over-shirt around his waist and stretched from side to side; they'd just completed another round of laps, circling the baseball field. He was about to suggest they call it a day when his phone, innocuous in his pocket, buzzed. His heart gave a leap- his phone had been silent all day, so this-

This had to be the verdict. He fumbled and cursed and got it out of the depths of his athletic pants and held it out; Riki and Keisuke had gathered around him, just as desperate to know the result of their team's game. It was from Shinooka. And Nishiura had won.

They whooped and hollered, Hamada jumping in tight, excited leaps while his grin grew and the warm sun flickered across his skin. Riki pushed his glasses farther up his nose and let out a long, happy exhalation, while Keisuke ran his hands through his hair, over and over, as if too stunned to stop. Hamada laughed, "This is great. This is so great!"

Ten minutes later, spent on happy energy, they agreed to end their day and made off in different directions, still occasionally calling out in glee. It was three blocks from the school that Hamada's phone buzzed again, this time with a call.

* * *

><p>The display reads <em>Kosuke<em>. His heart hammers, hard, just once, and the hair on his arms and neck rises with a chill. It is _Kosuke _calling him- so sudden and out of the blue and for the first time in a year and a half. Closer to two years, now. He is surprised that the number and the name still match; somehow, Izumi seems the type who might have a different mobile number by now. He flips his phone back open and raises it almost cautiously to his ear. "Hello?" he says, voice strange and rough. He swallows hard.

"_I missed you,_" a soft voice carries to him, quiet, as if lost somewhere.

Hamada balks but hardly has to think, "Izumi- I'm so sorry. I wish I could have been there, but Shiga-"

"_Yoshiro..._"

The blonde stops. Utterly stops, in the middle of the walkway, halfway between a tree and a fence and the what feels like the rest of his life. He says nothing, only grips the phone and waits.

"_Not just that... Not that. I mean..._"

There is a tone- a quality- in Izumi's voice that breaks Hamada's heart. He had only heard it once before, and he had never wanted to hear it again- but now, hear it he does. It is every fragility and weakness that Izumi refuses to show to anyone, ever. The little, weak and gentle part of himself that he hides and protects and keeps from the world: it trembles to Hamada now, far and away, crossing a distance that is not measured in physical terms alone. "Izumi...?" he finally tries, but he's worried it isn't the answer his beautiful boy needs and he swallows again, throat dry.

"_Can I see you? Please... can I just-_"

"Of course! Yes, yes... Can you write down my address? I live in an apartment building within busing distance of the school-"

"_I'll remember it,_" Izumi's voice is faint, but there is a tone of amusement there that eases the tension in Hamada's shoulders. He recites his address twice, then a third time, exactly as Izumi requests, and then there is a long pause before Izumi says, "_I'll be there in a little less than two hours._"

"Okay," Yoshiro says, mind spinning, and before he has time to worry over how to end the call, Izumi says, in a voice hardly more than a hoarse whisper, "_See you soon,_" and hangs up.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Hamada shuts his phone and takes a deep breath. The sun is still shining. A breeze lifts through the trees lining the walk, catches on and ruffles Hamada's hair. Several minutes of dazed quiet hover around and past the teen, before he comes back to himself, vaguely startled. He was aware of a heavy, nervous feeling in his chest; a minor catch in his breathing; a bird wheeling above.

And finally he is able to walk forward.

* * *

><p>When the bell rings, Hamada is halfway through straightening his futon; he has given up entirely on rolling it every day. There just isn't time, with baseball in the morning and work in the evening. He has only been home himself for about a half hour; there was trash here and there, now stuffed haphazardly in a bin, and he'd tried to scoot his few, hardly touched, video games into a reasonable-looking pile. There really wasn't much in the apartment; it was of the modern, ultra-tiny variety, with a kitchen and laundry hall leading to a cozy, but reasonably-sized living area. The futon was in the far corner, near the closet, alongside the window, across from the television. He didn't have cable, but the building provided free wifi, and his second-hand laptop lived on a thrift store coffee table, where eating, homework, and the occasional, sudden, nap all regularly occurred.<p>

He had never been embarrassed of it before, but now his apartment seemed woefully understated and sad.

Stumbling from his crouch in front of the rumpled bed, he hurries to the sliding door and muscles his way through the tiny kitchen hall. Standing in the lowered genkan area, his nervousness gets the better of him, and he has to take a deep breath. It's Izumi. On the other side of the door.

When he opens the door, it's like his heart forgets how to work for a moment, but then Izumi pushes himself through the arch without any ceremony and the spell is broken. It's all normal. The dark-haired boy toes off his shoes, keeping his eyes down, and then lets his overfull duffel bag to the floor. He's not sure what else to do with it, but it's too heavy to keep dealing with.

Hamada's apartment is cute; he looks to his left and sees the sink and kitchen, a rice-cooker, and a tiny, single load laundry machine. There is a small door just ahead that must lead to the patio and the laundry lines, past everything else is a half-open sliding door, and he can see the edge of a futon from where he stands. He looks away, neck hot.

"Hey, there," Hamada says, leaning back against the patio door to give Izumi space. "I'm, uh, glad you won the game today. It's great. You guys are going to go far, you know that?"

A scoff, "Not if I keep skipping practices to check up on you." And just like that, Izumi slides his feet into the never-before-used guest slippers and tromps into the kitchen as though he owns it. He's opening the handful of cupboards and grimacing unapologetically. "Really? How are you living...?"

Yoshiro says nothing, only grins. Izumi is out of uniform, layered up in a tee over a long-sleeve, with bracelets shoved over his left wrist. They're of the braided friendship variety that have become popular at the high school, and they look like gifts. "Yeah, things are kind of tight right now."

A moment passes, with Izumi frowning and Hamada wondering if he's gone and said the wrong thing.

"What happened?" Kosuke finally asks, turning and crossing his arms, his hip pressed into the lip of the sink.

Hamada hadn't disclosed the whole story to more than five people, beyond his family, but it was _Kosuke_ asking, and he wasn't about to lie. "A lot. A _lot_ a lot, I guess. Okay. Mom started drinking really heavily, and she started, you know, being abusive. Suddenly she just... left. Dad was devastated, but there was nothing for us to do. He moved my sisters back to my grandparent's house, in the country, and I stayed here. I worked too hard the first year, and missed too much school. That's why I'm repeating. He wanted me to go, too, but... I couldn't leave. My uncle helped me get a job at a gas station-"

Izumi's arms are limp now, at his sides, and his eyes are blazing somehow, angry and sad and focused. Hamada charges on, "And, hey, now I'm learning a lot about car repair, 'cause it's also a workshop, and I think I'm going to be an apprentice. It's fun."

And then Izumi is rushing over and _shoving_ him, hard, at the chest. Yoshiro is unprepared and knocks into the door, winded and hearing, "Stupid!"

A bundle of fury, but he's not moving away. His dark hair near Hamada's collar bones- it is exactly as Hamada remembers, it feels the same, sweet in its own way. He reaches out and risks, pulls Izumi close to his chest, and breathes in, deeply, for the first time. The younger does not fight him, only lets himself be held and struggles to think of the words he wants to say, of the things done he wants to right.

"Izumi-" he tries, but he is already being shoved away, again, though with less vehemence.

"We're having curry for dinner. I'm going to the market I passed on the way here. You wash the dishes while I'm gone."

And just like that, Yoshiro goes from holding Izumi to gazing at the space he once occupied. There is nothing to be said. He does the dishes.

* * *

><p>"It was a good game," Izumi says, somehow demure around a mouthful of sticky, yellowed rice, "There's a lot of room for improvement, but god knows Mihashi is always going above and beyond. He drives everyone crazy, of course, but I don't really mind. It's all the same to me."<p>

Hamada nods and stirs the pot of curry; it's steaming pleasantly between them, resting on the only pot-holder he owns. In his room, everything is quiet and calm, intimate and strangely domestic. Izumi had returned twenty-two and a half minutes after he'd left, efficiently whipped up a Thai-style curry and had been exceedingly pleased when Hamada had revealed that the rice-cooker was already humming and mostly done.

Izumi had served into the black lacquer bowls that Hamada hardly used, glancing up at the blonde through sooty eyelashes. And with no one around, Hamada was happy to see that his beautiful boy was with him in force, not pretending to hardly know him. At turns, he would lever his spoon into his bowl and just exhale, almost smiling. Hamada knew the look. He'd worried he'd never see it again.

"I missed you," he blurts, blue eyes trained on Izumi's lips, now turned in a small frown. With a shudder in his stomach, he realizes that the meal is ruined. After all this time, Izumi is the same; secretive and cold, sweeping and sweet. Hamada is just as good as he ever was at detecting which and when.

The bowl in Izumi's hand, ounces of spicy broth rolling in small waves, comes crashing down to the coffee table. His eyes are dark and furious. It hadn't been his intention, Izumi realizes, when he broke down and contacted Hamada- came to his home and cooked for him- to really _deal _with the problem that existed between them, like a darkness. And that had been foolish.

He isn't ready. He doesn't want the responsibility. With a deep, unsettled breath, he pushes the bowl away and feels his brows draw close. It's always been Hamada that could do this- it's always been Hamada who could make him come undone. And as much as he wants the shallow, easy truce, he knows there's no avoiding what is about to transpire. Like a tidal wave of water, they have reached an apex.

He doesn't want to say it, but out it comes, "_You_ walked away from _me._"

The blood washes from Hamada's gorgeous face, and it's an awful thumping that his heart has taken to.

"Kosuke-"

"I had to leave everything behind, most of all_ you_, and you just... _walked away_, and you didn't call or even _text _and for the last two years I've just-"

"You didn't call me, either-" Hamada huffs, bowl forgotten, fists clenched. "And you didn't give me much warning-"

"-I didn't know what to think, I thought you _hated_ me because I had to leave-"

"-Every day I wished you hadn't left-"

"-I couldn't stop thinking about you and what we had done and I wondered if I would always be this _fucked up_-"

"-I _loved _you, I didn't know _what to do_ _without you_-"

"-And then I found one of your shirts in my things and- and- and-!" there is an unkind _thump_ from one of the neighboring walls and Izumi realizes with embarrassment that he has been shouting and is _almost hyperventilating, _and _almost crying_. His breath shudders in and out, awful and thick, and the hopeless, desperate look in Hamada's eyes makes him sick inside. He manages to whisper, "And it's in my duffel bag. It's always there."

Silence and the kind of heavy breathing that _reminds _them both.

Hamada seems to be ready to reach out, seems open and handsome and kind and everything that Izumi can't defend himself against, and he knows that if he is touched, if Hamada's warm fingers brush him, even a little, he will fall apart. He stands. With his hands raking through his overlong bangs and drawing down to cover his freckled cheeks, he has no idea how fetching he is. Hamada licks his lips, heart aching. The only thing he wants to do is grab Kosuke up and keep him forever.

A vision of Izumi's continued presence breaches all his defenses- Izumi in a plain, white apron, cooking and grumbling, lying in bed for hours, limbs tangled, coming home from the garage to find Izumi hunched over homework at the coffee table, fighting over how many round they each get when sharing video games, walking _home_ together after baseball practice- and he stands, stumbling to catch up to Izumi's troubled pacing.

It's too much.

"I shouldn't have- I should leave-"

"Kosuke, please,"Hamada hears himself saying, his voice riding a line between gentle and desperate. "Don't- let me-"

Cheeks flushed and eyes damp with angry tears, Izumi stutters to a halt in the middle of the room, unsure of where to go or what to do. Nothing feels real. He has to remind himself that he didn't make it all up- that, a long time ago, they had seduced each other and _meant _it. "Yoshiro?"

Hamada knows, then, what a broken heart sounds like.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know what to think at that time- I couldn't handle it. I shouldn't have walked away from you, but... I though you didn't care. You were so calm. But you- you're always so calm when you're upset, aren't you?"

Izumi shakes his head, knowing better. "I feel like my ribs are all cracked."

Hamada reaches out, tentative. It makes the most sense to take Kosuke by the chest, fingers wrapped carefully around his smaller frame. "When I realized how... stupid I was being, it was too late. You were gone and I didn't... I didn't know if you wanted to hear from me."

"Your shirt-"

Yoshiro laughs a small, relieved laugh, "Keep it."

And Izumi can't help but let out a breathless giggle in return, "No- I mean... When I found it..."

Hamada watches the adam's apple of Kosuke's long throat bob helplessly around an unsure swallow. The raging, nasty Izumi has vanished, as quickly as a bird on a wire. With a tug, Izumi tumbles against Hamada's chest- where he belongs. The older boy does not miss the vague, terrified whisper near his collar bones: "I knew... I loved you so much..."

"I love you, too," Yoshiro rushes, squeezing tight, reckless. "I love you, I love you, I love you. I never stopped. I thought it would go away. I thought it couldn't possibly last, and the _I saw you_, my beautiful boy. I can't believe you came back."

Kosuke's only response is to grasp his arms tightly around Hamada's back. His face is turned, eyes shut tightly, and Yoshiro doesn't miss the way he shakes. Doesn't miss the thrill of joy in his chest. There is no hesitation; he curls downward, nosing Izumi's hair and forehead and earning an upturned cheek. For a moment, their breath lingers between them in hot puffs. The younger is glassy-eyed and dazed, and Hamada is unbelieving of his luck. Carefully, he presses his lips against Kosuke's, gentle until Kosuke presses back, needful and intense. There is a whine in the back of the dark-haired boy's throat, a keen of relief, and Yoshiro feeds on it, elated.

The kiss is damp and molten, and lasts for longer than Hamada knows he deserves. It is like a dream.

He's only back to reality when Izumi pulls back, face pained, and mutters, "It can't be like before. I need... time."

"Time...?" he has to take in the glossy, burning look in Kosuke's pretty, dark eyes, and the full, ruddy color of his lips to understand. "Oh. _Oh._ God."

He earns a look of hurt.

"No! No, I understand. I... I think that's a good idea," he loosens his hold to card his fingers though the other's hair, in awe of the way it parts and shifts. "For both of us."

A pause. "I'm... I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have... been so stubborn. I should have-"

It is another thing entirely to kiss Izumi breathless; to quiet him and his doubts and his worries with a sure tongue. It is as intimate as he needs, Yoshiro knows; if they never touched again, only kissed and gave over to smiles like the one Izumi is giving him now, it would be enough.

"It's fine. Everything is fine. Thank you for forgiving me."

"Thank you for... still... loving me. I'm sor-"

An unrelenting embrace, tight and possessive, then, "Don't apologize. We're okay."

A tension swept out of Izumi, simply fell away from him, and he collapsed without shame against Yoshiro, fingers tight in the fabric of his soft tee. "Let's start over."

A kiss to his temple. "Anything you want."

"You. Just you."


End file.
